


Extra Credit

by charmtion



Series: Querencia [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: ... Bit of Sweetness too, A Smug Fucking SEXY Bastard, Actually Quite a Serious Backstory Amongst all the Smut, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Cigarettes & Regrets, College, Consensual Control, F/M, I’m Not Crying YOU’RE Crying., James-Jeffrey-What’s-His-Name, Jon and Sansa Are Not Related, Jon is a Bastard, Mild Kink, Professor Snow's Magic Tongue, Sexual Tension, Slow-ish burn, Spanking, Swearing, Sweet Sweet Jonsa, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-01-27 07:29:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21388390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charmtion/pseuds/charmtion
Summary: “In a moment, I am going to let go of your hands.” Uses the same calm, even tone he’d use in class, in morning meetings; she moans softly at the sound of it. “You will keep them behind your back even so.” Pauses for half a breath, presses against the curve of her spine as if to reinforce his point. “Do you understand, Miss Stark?”Jon is a Professor of English Literature at a prestigious university. Sansa is his perpetually late TA. They are frequently irritated by each other, and constantly enthralled. Word-games and a battle of wills. Sexy (controlled) chaos ensues and—despite their best intentions—somethingmore.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Series: Querencia [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1556566
Comments: 314
Kudos: 363





	1. 11:01am

**Author's Note:**

> So here it is: a prequel-sequel-thing to [No More](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20822477) and [Peace of Mind](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21350539). Buckle in for some age (in)appropriate fun, my sweets. 🔥

She feels like shit. Too much whiskey. Wine. Whatever else her friends kept sloshing in her glass last night. Knocked the water off her bedside table sometime in her sleep. Mouth like a desert; groggy head, half-closed eyes as she swats at the alarm blaring underneath her pillow. Hits it on the second slap. Peace. Quiet. Deep, dark sleep.

Rolls onto her belly a while later. Gropes under the pillow, screws her eyes up at the glare of her phone-screen. 11:01am. Not bad. Got in at gone four. Probably. Seems positively early. No lie-in at all. 11:01am. Moment of half-wakeful bliss. Then a stray thought. _11:01am_. Fuck. Shit.

Falls out of bed. Tangled limbs on the clothes-strewn carpet. Hair a haystack. Last night’s mascara still smudged on her lashes. Finds a sweater. Coat. No time for coffee. Fuck. Shit. Leaves the house at 11:09am.

*

He’s halfway through a slide on sexual innuendo in Shakespearian literature when the door to the lecture hall bursts open. Tries to ignore it. Knows who it’ll be. Not the jocks. No, they’re always irritatingly punctual. Not the try-hards, either. They probably sat up front sometime in the night for fear of losing their prime-time seats. Latecomers have already drifted in. She’s never just _late_. He doubts she’s ever sat through an entire two-hour lecture in her life.

Can hear her whispering — _sorry, oops, sorry, thank you_ — as she skates between rows to find an empty seat. Thumps her bag down. Heaves her jacket off with a sigh. He keeps his back to her through the whole little performance. Clicks onto the next slide. Voice as level as it was before she burst in. But there’s a muscle flickering at the corner of his jaw. Fingers turned to a fist as he gestures at the screen.

Waits five minutes before he lets himself finally turn to survey the hall. Eager faces along the front-row. Stifled yawns in the darker corners. Few talking behind their hands. One applying lipstick in a compact mirror. Lets his eyes sweep the seats. Settle. There she is. Head bent over her notebook. Pen scribbling. Scarlet hair slipping like a curtain of sunlight over her face. Can see the sunglasses behind it, though. Hungover.

He raps his hand to the podium the next time he changes the slide. Enjoys the little tender-headed moan she makes. Smiles to himself — even as the sound makes a shiver run up the back of his neck.

*

All she wants is coffee. Gallon of it. Burnt earth taste of it scouring last night’s whiskey and tobacco off her tongue. Dear God, her head is throbbing. Everything seems so bright. So _loud_. Girls giggling behind their hands in the seats beside her. Someone’s thumbs tap-tap-tapping at a phone screen hidden beneath a desk. And right up front, that occasional _thump_ of a fist to the podium as the slides change.

He hasn’t looked at her yet. Hardly ever looks at her. Never casually anyway. Not like the glances he gives to the other students in the hall: all bored eyes and bowed lips. No. When he looks at her, it’s with something else behind his eyes. Something hot. Hard.

She thinks it’s anger. _Knows_ it’s anger. She’s always late. Always loud. Always the last one to file in, turn over an essay that smells faintly of cigarettes and has a wine-stain watermark midway through. Anger. Mm, yes. She can see it, _feel_ it — simmers on the air every time he lets his stare settle on her for more than a minute. Should scare her, shouldn’t it? Should _shame_ her. But it doesn’t. She likes it. _Loves_ it. Keeps being late and loud and the last one in just to feel the heat of that glare sweep across her face in the crowd.

Glances up. Still got his back to her. Doesn’t stop her staring. _Admiring_. He’s all well-cut suits. Charcoal, sometimes navy. Pressed white shirts that he folds neatly to his elbows on warmer days. Everything clings to him. Nestles up against the long, lean lines of his body. Shoulders filling his shirts. Sun-browned nape showing beneath the wild black hair he keeps caught in an artless bun. Glasses whisked from his shirt-pocket, nestled halfway down his nose when he’s looking over his notes.

Like a god in the half-light of the lecture slides. Carved of marble, obsidian, bronze when the sunlight catches him just _so_. She wonders — not for the first time — what look he’d give her if he ever knew the little acts of worship she dedicates to him some nights. Not prayers. Not candles lit on stony altars. No. Her hand skating down her belly. Fingers playing a damp little dance between her thighs. Head rocked back into her pillow. His name on her lips. Mm. Suppose sometimes it _does_ sound like a prayer.

*

Thinks she’s discreet. Thinks her thoughts are as obscured by her sunglasses as her eyes. She’s wrong. He sees it all. Has seen it all everyday she deigns to turn up to his class. It’s in the way she holds herself. Fingers half-fanned across her lips. Other hand curled around her throat. Shoulders leaned toward him, just a little. Legs spread wider than they need be beneath the tabletop. Mouth sometimes quirking into a smug little smirk, like she’s reliving some private joke as he drones on about monologues and metaphors.

Raps the podium again. This time her head bolts up. Smug smile falls from her lips. Can practically hear the breath half-hitch in her throat. Pretends to call for quiet. Anything to hit his palm against the wood once more. Because he _sees_ it then. Her lips parted, tongue caught between her teeth. Painted nails nipping at her throat. Legs splaying wider. Sunglasses slipping just enough that he spots the widening of her blue, blue eyes. _Now_ he’s got her attention.

Smooths his palm against the podium then. Two spots of colour in her waxy cheeks. Rose-patterned porcelain. Rest of the lecture he feels her gaze fixed to his back. He smiles to himself. His turn to be smug. Because he’s pretty sure he’s found the secret she keeps buried beneath those blue, blue eyes.

*

She’s forgotten all about coffee. All about her throbbing head. Something _else_ is throbbing now. It’s a struggle just to sit still. Hips keep wanting to roll. Shift around till she finds some pressure to relieve the bursting ache turning her brain to mush. Her pen lies useless on a half-written page of notes. Has to sit on her hands to hide her shaking fingers. Feels like she’s burning up and covered in ice-prickles all at the same time.

Struggling out of her sweater just as he calls time on class. Another essay due for next week. Macbeth. Witches. Female sexuality. Thematic significance. Can barely hear him through the tight-weave of fabric caught over her face. Struggling now. Everyone filing past her; door clanking open and shut as the hall empties out. Half-rises out of her seat, fingers scrabbling for the edges of the sweater.

Hands. Not her hands. Hot hands. Smooth as sun-warmed stones. Sliding the sleeves off her arms, tugging the sweater easily over her head. Prepares herself in that brief moment of darkness before the fabric disappears.

Might be one of the jocks. What was the name of the one she’d dragged back to her room after that party? James? Jeffrey? Swirl of gold hair and green eyes. Pretty shit between the sheets. Couldn’t make her come. What the fuck was his name? And — oh _shit_ — what if it’s him helping her out of her clothes _again_?

Bright light as the clinging fabric finally lifts free, taking her sunglasses with it. She blinks, dazzling smile ready-painted on her cheeks. Falls pretty quickly. Because it’s not a jock. Not James. Or Jeffrey. Or whatever-his-fucking-name-was. It’s — fuck. Shit.

“Thank you,” she manages. “Professor Snow.”

*

“Late arriving,” he says before she’s even finished stammering her thanks. “Late leaving, too.” He keeps his voice measured, even as his heartbeat fills his ears. “Do you own a watch, Miss Stark?”

“I — ”

“I think not.” He shifts his folded-up jacket over the other arm, flexes his fingers on the handle of his leather briefcase. “You have arrived late to thirteen lectures this semester. _Thirteen_, Miss Stark. Never an email. Never a reason given at the end of class. Not one single apology.” He quirks a brow, tilts his head a little to one side. “I’m beginning to think you don’t put much stock in me as a lecturer, Miss Stark.”

Flush in her cheeks again. God, he’d forgotten how pretty she is up close. Always keeps his distance. Watches her from afar. But now he can feel the heat of her body. Smell the lingering trace of last night’s perfume on her skin: malt liquor and tobacco and something sweeter. Dangerous. All of it. Her warmth. Her wide, blue eyes. Her woodsmoke scent. The way his tongue aches to taste it.

“Or is it a sense of direction you lack?” He cuts her off again, tries to master the heat spiking in his veins. “Could be that — judging by the fact you couldn’t even find your way out of the sleeves of your sweater just now.” Enjoys the fresh flush of colour sweeping her cheeks. “A compass, then. And a watch. Maybe then you’ll find your way to my class _on time_, Miss Stark.”

“Sorry.” She’s kept her arms folded across her chest since he pulled the sweater off them. But now she unlinks them, lets them hang by her hips. He can’t help but notice that her nipples are pebbled. Poking through the thin film of her shirt. His mouth waters. “I _am_ sorry, Professor Snow. Timekeeping’s never been my strong point.”

“See that you make it stronger.” Somehow, his voice is still level as he lifts his eyes to meet her sapphire gaze. “Or you’ll fall behind. It would be a shame to see you fail this class, Miss Stark. You’re a bright girl.”

Her eyes flare a little at that. Bit of pride. Bit of annoyance. Bit of something else. Exactly why he used _girl_ and not _student_. Gauge her reaction. She lifts her chin, crosses her arms again.

“Am I in danger of failing, Professor Snow?” she asks.

“Yes,” he says. “You are.” Makes a show of checking the tightness of his leather watch-strap. “If attendance dips below sixty-eight percent, a student might find their place on this course is threatened.” He meets her eyes again, lip quirking up a little at the corner. “You’re on the borderline, Miss Stark.”

Bites her lip. “Is there anything I can do to earn extra credit?”

“Extra credit.” He rolls the words round his mouth like they are something exotic. “Hmm, that’s an idea.” Pretends to consider it. “I _have_ got an opening for a new TA this semester. Grading papers. Bit of research work. That sort of thing.” Cocks his head to the side again, feathers his fingers across his chin. “But I need someone reliable, Miss Stark. Someone who can keep to time — and find her way to the lecture-hall without getting lost.”

Brief leap of excitement in her eyes mastered as she blinks. “I can do that.” Frowns as he lifts a brow. “I _can_, Professor Snow. I won’t let you down.” Teeth nipping at her lip, eyes great blue pools inviting him in to dip and dive and _drown_. “I promise.”

“No need to promise anything, Miss Stark,” he murmurs. “Prove it to me instead.”

She nods, scarlet strands tumbling past her ears. He gives a curt little incline of his head, brushes past her to make his way up the steps. Leaves her in the lecture-hall, sweater clutched to her chest, those blue, blue eyes boring into his back. Slings his jacket over his shoulder, walks to his next class with a smile on his face, a spring in his step.

*

Soon as the door swings shut, she’s slumped backward into the seat, sweater held to her face to muffle the sound she makes. Half-shout, half-moan. Fuck. Shit. _Fuck_. Body a rage of heat and hormones and hunger.

His smug little smirk. His wrist flexing as he made a stupid show of checking his watch. The effortless way he cut across everything she was saying. Made her stutter. Called her a _bright girl_. Smarts, that. Mainly because it annoyed her. But also because it sent a blaze of heat straight between her hipbones. Still pulsing now. Fuck. Shit. _Fuck_.

Coffee. Cigarette. Drown her thoughts in steam, choke them out with smoke. That’s the only option with a head as tender as hers still is. _You’re on the borderline, Miss Stark_. Damn right she is. Midway between throwing up the rest of last night’s whiskey and making a mess of her jeans just by _thinking_ of the feel of his chest as it brushed past her on his way up the stairs. Fuck. Shit. _Fuck_.

Wraps her sweater round her shoulders, sidles her way up the steps, wincing as the ache deepens between her legs. Fuck. Might have to say a prayer or two tonight.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **NB**: this is my first multi-chapter modern au so I am feeling a little out of MY DEPTH HERE. All I know is I had no intention of ever writing [No More](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20822477). And absolutely no intention of writing [Peace of Mind](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21350539). And absolutely 100% no intention of writing a multi-chapter follow-up plotting where it all began… but here we are. Please follow along, comment, love it, hate it, get hot and bothered by it, let me know what you think. Means the world when you do. ❤️


	2. Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > It’s only going to get warmer from here on out… 🔥☕

No more whiskey. No more wine. Sipping a tall, cool glass of water on a night out. No time to get drunk. No time to feel like shit the next day. Not when Professor Snow is setting the schedule. Eight o’clock meetings. Things that could’ve easily been communicated in an email. Marking criteria. Methodologies for upcoming essay questions. Boring shit. Time-consuming shit. But she’s there alright — bright and early. Every time.

Same story this morning. Campus is a ghost town as always. Nods _hello_ to the janitor changing up the bin-bags. Frowns at a pigeon that criss-crosses her path till she claps at it. Takes off, grey wings against a grey sky. She watches it go, then ducks her head into her shoulders and pushes through the double-doors to the Department of English.

Wrinkles her nose up at the machine-grade coffee. Burnt earth and polystyrene. It’ll have to do. No time for her little fresh-brewed ritual this morning. Had to slip out the house before James-Jeffrey-what’s-his-fucking-name woke up. Can’t even blame it on being a drunk decision. It was a decision, that’s all. A _bad_ decision. James-Jeffrey was shit the first time she slept with him; somehow, he was even worse last night. Three-minute wonder. Wonderful for him, maybe. Definitely not for her.

Thought it might satisfy the ache that’s been building in her since the other week. Might bring a bit of flood-relief to a river that’s _literally_ about to burst its banks. Just added to it, if anything. Because then she was stuck between his sweat-damp sheets, heavy arm lolling across her hip; no chance to say a little _prayer_ and send herself to sleep.

No prayers last night, then. No fresh-brewed ritual this morning. Hair is a mess. Last night’s lipstick still painting her mouth a deep, dark red. She pulls her coat a little closer, steps through the archway leading to the offices. Makes her way to the third one along. Light’s off and — peeks against the frosted glass — _yep_, no-one’s home. She lets herself in anyway, sits on the darkwood chair drawn up in front of the desk. Looks at the clock. 8:01am. Waits for him, river threatening to swish over the banks of her belly.

*

He’s started showing up to their meetings a little late. Doesn’t know why. Something to do with keeping her waiting. Serving her up a bit of her own medicine. Punishing her in a way that is still acceptable within the bounds of student-teacher relations. Something to do with the little leap of annoyance he catches in her eyes before she masters it, flare of irritation to her lips before she sets them in a sweet, little smile.

Mm, he likes that. _Loves_ that.

Another eight o’clock meeting today. Glances at his watch as he waits in-line for his coffee. 8:01am. Adjusts the leather strap, smiles pleasantly at the barista as she slips a sleeve round the cup. 8:03am. Takes his time turning up the collar of his coat, tucking the edges of his grey scarf more securely round his neck. 8:04am. Scalding sip from the paper cup, swills it round his mouth. Swallows. Leaves the coffee shop at 8:09am.

He steps through the archway leading to the offices a little under ten minutes later. Slides on soundless feet to the door. Takes it all in. Polished wood-sheen, his name picked out in neat black letters on the bright white sign, panel of frosted glass just above it. Puts his hand to the door-knob as he glances through the misty square. Smiles to himself as he makes out her outline, all blurred at the edges.

“Good morning, Miss Stark.”

Says it at the same time as he spins the door-handle, sweeps in soundlessly, slips the door shut behind him. Enjoys how it makes her jump. Always does. How many meetings have they had? Five? Six? Still, she starts out of her skin whenever he steps into the office. Nips the inside of his cheek to stem the breathless chuckle he feels smoking in his throat. Casts a glance at her.

Leap of annoyance is there, alright. Flare of irritation on her lips as he perks his own in a sweet, little smile.

*

God, she _hates_ that. Hates how he seems to conjure himself up out of thin air. Hates how he sweeps in with a smirk as smug as the little logo of the premium-grade coffee he holds loosely in his fist. Hates how he looks as if he’s just stepped straight from the prim-pressed pages of the newest 007 novel: dark jacket wrapping up his muscles like he’s a fucking birthday present, grey scarf the same smoky shade as his eyes, cheeks flushed the prettiest, most exclusive, most fucking expensive blush-shade you’d find in Sephora from his brisk walk to campus.

Hates that she _notices_ all these little things. Hates how hot they make her. Tries to master it. Settles her lashes over the fire in her eyes. Stretches her lips into a polite smile. Does no good. He sees right through it. Somehow, he always does.

“Subway was running late,” he’s saying as he hangs up his jacket on the coat-rack. “Barely had time to grab a coffee.” Settles himself behind the desk, cheeks still a little rouged from the winter air without. “Nasty stuff.”

She looks to where he’s gesturing: the half-drained polystyrene cup in her hand. “It’s not the worst I’ve ever had.” Takes a sip as if to prove it; tries not to wrinkle her nose. “Mm. Not the best, either.” Lifts a brow. “Still, I’m a student. Can’t afford to be too fussy.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” he says evenly. “Does fussiness even come into it? Surely, it’s just prioritising where you spend your money, isn’t it?” Tilts his head to the side, just a little. “Having some standards.”

Suddenly she is very conscious of her just-fucked hair. The blood-red lipstick. Hole in her tights just above her left knee. He’s looking at her face, meeting her eyes — but she _knows_ what he’s thinking. _Having some standards_. Well, fuck, if the ground would just like to swallow her up now, that’d be great.

In the absence of a sinkhole, she clears her throat. “Are we still talking about coffee?”

“I don’t know, Miss Stark,” he says in the same even tone. “Are we?”

God, she _hates_ him. Hates how he stays so calm and controlled. Hates the lazy way he looks at her. Hates how he always turns her questions back onto her. Hates the way he sips his coffee and runs his tongue across his bottom lip to swipe up the steam. Hates that she _notices_ all these little things. Hates how hot _that_ particular little thing makes her.

Tries to master it. Bends over her bag, fishes out the essays he asked her to mark. Slams them onto the desk. Meets his eyes. Something behind them. Something hot. Hard. Not anger. Not this time. No. Something else. Hotter. Harder. Somehow, her mouth is watering. Fingers trembling on the papers she’s sifting through. Body screaming. Heat bursting between her thighs. Fuck. Shit. _Fuck_.

*

It’s taking every bit of his self-control not to give into what his body wants. Her. Bent back over his desk. Hands gripping at the edge. Pert little backside stuck up in the air. Rest of her tights ripped to tatters. The fire in her eyes. God fucking damn. He wants to blow on it, stoke it up, watch it burn and blaze and _burst_.

She wants it, too. He can tell. See it. _Feel_ it. Radiates from her like smoke from a fire. Fills the room. Threatens to choke him. So, he doesn’t speak. Keeps up his cool, calm demeanour. Head tilted just a little to one side as she stabs at an essay with a painted nail, explains the grade she gave it. Bends forward, feels for the glasses in his top-pocket. Balances them halfway down his nose to look the paper over.

“And here,” she’s saying, eyes still fixed on her red-ink scrawls at the edge of the paper. “I wasn’t sure — ” Looks up and loses her words. Hears the small hiss of breath in her throat as he glances up at her over the top of his glasses. Now _that_ is interesting. “I — I wasn’t sure exactly what he was getting at.”

Brushes her fingers as he takes the paper from her. Adjusts his glasses; hears the same small hiss of breath escape her parted lips as he does so. Fights the smirk from his face. Makes a show of reading the paper, rustling through the next few pages. Then sets them neatly down onto his desk. Pushes his glasses up off his nose, over his brow, leaves them perched atop his head — enjoys the way she can’t quite keep her eyes off them.

Launches into some monotone explanation as to what the student in question was _getting at_. Makes gestures to the papers in front of him. Indicates a chart of Shakespearian phrases pinned up on the wall behind him. All the while, he’s drinking every inch of her in. Every little detail. Just-fucked hair. Black nails nipping at her cup of coffee. Love-bite on her neck.

Pretty neck she’s got. Swan-like. Long, clean line — can well imagine how soft it is. How tempting it would be to sink a bite into. Wonders who left it. One of the jocks no doubt. The tallish one: golden curls, cat-green eyes. James. Or is it Jeffrey? Whatever his name is. He’s seen him leaning down from the back row to ogle a glance at her, lust clear as day in his flashy fucking emerald eyes.

_Joffrey_. That’s it. Fucking stupid name. Like he’s some age-old king of England — not the worm-lipped little shit he actually is. Always cracking crude jokes with his tracksuit-wearing cronies. Throwing balls of paper at the geeky kids in the midsection of the lecture-hall. Bragging about the numbers he gets off older women at downtown bars. What the fuck is she doing letting someone like _him_ suck a love-bite into her pretty little throat?

Mm, she doesn’t need a Joffrey. Or a James. Or a Jeffrey. No. Little boy-jocks with all their swagger and steroid-swollen shoulders can’t give her what she wants — what she _needs_. They can’t handle her. Emotionally. Intellectually. Physically. And that’s _exactly_ what she wants and needs. Handling. Someone to match her fire. Not tame it. Blow on it. Make it burn and blaze and _burst_. Suck bites into her neck. Leave bruises on the softer parts of her body. Rap her arse with the same force that shakes a lecture-hall podium. Make her work for it. Mm, make her _beg_ for it.

*

He’s looking at her in a way that makes her legs part a little wider on the chair. Not consciously. Reflexively. Soon as she realises, she crosses them. Drums her foot as it dangles from her knee. Just makes the hole gape a little wider in her tights. Doesn’t stop the ache between her legs, the dampness of her panties. If anything, the shift makes it worse. Makes her want to bite her lip, roll toward the friction.

“You look a little flushed, Miss Stark.” Same even tone, brow quirking as he indicates the coat-rack by the door. “Feel free to hang up your jacket.”

Does it without thinking. Faux fur slipping off her shoulders, pooling round her middle like a splash of ink. His eyes on her collarbone. Fuck. Shit. Still in last night’s dress. Somehow, she forgot _that_. Should pull the jacket back up, cover herself. But she’s frozen. Useless. Stupid. Fucking deer in the headlights of his bright, bemused eyes. Jacket stays bunched up around her waist.

“I — ”

“Lipstick. Fishnets. Low enough neckline to get us both into trouble.” He pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, eyes blazing on her own. “What is it that you want, Miss Stark?” Voice like well-aged whiskey; God, the husk of it is turning her skin a hundred shades of ice and fire. “What exactly do you want?”

“What do _you_ want?”

He looks surprised at the strength in her voice. The steeliness of her tone. She’s surprised herself. Because inside she’s soft as metal-melt — just as hot. He lets go of his nose, runs his fingers down to cup his chin. She nearly bites her lip at that.

“My wants don’t come into this, Miss Stark.”

“I think they do.”

“You _think_, do you?” His surprise slips from his eyes to his voice now. “Shame you don’t do a bit more of _that_ where it matters. On the subject of essays…” Shuffles through the neat pile of papers on his desk, comes up with a separate folder. “… yours have fire, Miss Stark. Plenty of it. Too much of it. Burns up any molecule of sense and structure. Seriously affects the _standard _of it.” Eyes on her throat now, on the – oh _fuck_, she’d forgotten _that_, too. “Leaves it all rather a mess.”

Her teeth are clenched. “Nothing wrong with a bit of mess. Cluttered desk. Cluttered mind.” Spits the words like apple-seeds, sends them flying at his face as she throws a sweeping gesture at the well-ordered expanse of ironwood between them. “What was it Einstein said about an _empty_ desk, again?”

“This isn’t high school,” he says lightly. “You’ll have to learn to take criticism better.”

“Will I?”

“Yes.” He doesn’t miss a beat. Leans back in his plush leather chair, lips half-lifted in something like a smile. “If you want to continue in my class. If you want to keep your fire _and_ learn how to refine it at the same time.” Tilts forward slightly, tongue poking out to roll over his bottom lip. Good _God_, she feels it right where she’s hottest. “If you want us to continue working together.” He lifts a brow, spreads his hands: the very image of innocence. “That _is_ what you want… isn’t it, Miss Stark?”

“Yes.” Her voice is barely louder than a whisper. “Yes, Professor Snow.”

“I thought so.” He nods, lip caught between his teeth. Then the smile is gone. Face smoothed back to its usual god-like serenity. “I think that’s us wrapped up for this morning.” Settles his glasses back onto his nose, opens up his laptop, gives her a cursory glance as she heaves herself out of the chair. “See you in class, Miss Stark.”

God, she _hates_ him. Hates him. Hates him. _Hates_ him. But by fucking-Jesus-Christ-and-all-the-angels is she hungry for him, too.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Calm before the storm; next few chapters have almost written themselves. Hope you all continue to enjoy the slow-ish-not-slow-at-all burn as we go along **#aintnobodygottimeforthat**. Thoughts, comments, hates, likes, loves; as always very welcome. ❤️


	3. Good Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > Confessions. Fireworks. Explosions. Brace yourselves. 👄💥🔥

He’s restless. Can’t settle. Went for a jog at dusk. Had too much energy. Too much heat in his blood. Needed to pound a bit of it out any way he could. Ran miles. Through the side-streets and standstill commuter traffic.

Now it’s dark. Inky sky, scattered stars. City lights spilling in through the big windows of his apartment. Pauses by one, gazes out. Watches the flashes of cars and trucks and taxis eight floors below. Kaleidoscope colours as their lights spark up the glass, send dapples dancing across the hardwood floors. Stays perfectly still, placidly watching shadow-shapes — but his mind is whirling. Full of her.

The way she stormed out of his office. Coat pulled back up around her shoulders. Hips swaying. Hair a streak of fire down her back as she wrenched the door open. Slammed it shut. His fingers were itching. Aching to yank her back by the arm. Throw her over the desk. Give her what every fibre of her being — _his_ being — was crying out for. Take those tatty tights between his hands and rip them to her ankles.

He sighs. Leans his forehead to the night-cool glass. He’s hard. Has been all day. Had to adjust himself discreetly to teach his nine o’clock class. Subsided a little. Middle English literature has a way of dousing desirous flames. Came back tenfold when he glanced her in the smoking section around noon; blood-red lips pursed round a cigarette, sucking up the smoke, o-shaped mouth as she blew perfect little rings. Ducked into the toilets to sort himself out after that. Had to. _Wanking_ _at_ _work_. He still can’t quite believe it.

Twice in the shower just now, too. It’s like he’s thirteen again — not a thirty-something, tenured professor at a prestigious university far from home. _Wanking at work_. He’s almost angry he had to do it. Almost angry that he’s even now filling out his soft, grey sweatpants. _Achingly_ angry. Itching fingers again. Desperate to take some of this energy out on the flame-haired temptress that is causing it. Mm, shame she’s not within reaching distance.

A ping distracts him.

He glances at his laptop in the pool of pale yellow light on the marble countertop. Presses his cheek to the window-glass as he considers. Maybe she’s not _completely_ out of reach.

*

It’s cold out on the fire-escape. Cloudless night. All ink-dark sky and silver stars. She’s got half a hundred layers on. Comforter wrapped round her shoulders. Three pairs of socks. Beanie jammed down over her hair. Still freezing. Breath misting on the icy air. Her nose is numb and she is seriously contemplating whether her fingertips are frostbitten. But it’s better out here than in _there_.

Housemate brought her boyfriend back again. They’ve been fucking for hours. Rattling the bedframe against the thin wall. Moaning and groaning and grunting. Murmuring each other’s names in sickly-sweet tones that make her wrinkle her nose up more than this morning’s machine-grade coffee.

Not that they’re keeping her up. Couldn’t sleep even if the apartment was quiet. Things on her mind. Always has this time of night. Something about the air; makes everything sharpen with a cold clarity. Things that she fights to keep at bay all day somehow come creeping back. Blurring at the edges of her brain. Thoughts. Memories. Painful things she tries so hard to keep buried. Hailstones. Heartache. _Home_ —

Stops herself with the bite of her nails to her palms. _Nope_. No time for that. Not now. Got another load of essays to mark. Not due till next week but she wants to get them done. Keep her mind busy. Keep her _standards_ high. She glances at the untidy pile balanced on the black-iron ledge of the fire-escape. Looks down at the remainder limned yellow by the streetlights; reckons there’s at least twenty more to grade.

A ping distracts her.

Shimmies back in through the half-open window. Comforter shattering a plant pot as it snags on the sill. Fuck. Shit. Socks all covered in soil now as she treads across the polished floorboards, finds her laptop propped on a pile of books atop the coffee table. It pings again. Heat in her blood suddenly. Doesn’t need to look at the screen to know who it’s from.

Wants to slam the laptop shut and swaddle back to her freezing office. Doesn’t though. Of course she doesn’t — she reads the fucking thing.

It _sounds_ like him. How can web-format words sound like anything? But they do. It’s like he’s speaking them into her ear. Exact tone as he’d use in class: clipped, polished, perfunctory. Exact tone that sets her teeth on edge and sends a shiver up her spine. Both — all at once. How the fuck does he _do_ that?

Slams the lid shut. Stomps back to her icy perch on the fire-escape. Snags another pot-plant. Scowls as it shatters. Fuck. Shit. _Fuck_.

*

Fights the smirk from his face as she barges into his office without knocking. Paints on a calm expression instead. Pen resting loosely between his fingers. Brows quirked up as he looks at her over his glasses, head still half-bent over the article he’s pretending to edit. Checks his watch as she slams into her seat. 8:14am. Adjusts the leather strap, sets the pen down smoothly.

“Late, Miss Stark?” he says lightly. “You were doing _so_ well.”

Red-rimmed eyes narrow on his. “Overslept. Up half the night grading essays.” She thumps them down onto the desk. “You said they were due _next_ Thursday.”

“Things change. Timetables shift.” He shrugs his shoulders half-apologetically. “TAs have to be flexible, Miss Stark. It’s part of the job.”

Bites her lip, nostrils flaring. “I understand that, Professor Snow.” Jaw so tight it shimmers like ivory in the weak winter sunlight. “But an email at gone midnight to tell me they’re due _this_ morning is _not_ sufficient notice.” Levels her chin, looks him dead in the eye. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Couldn’t be helped,” he says with the same half-shrug. “I am at the mercy of shifting deadlines and short notice just as you are, Miss Stark.” He taps a palm to the pile of papers. “Still, I am _very_ grateful that you got them graded in time.” He gives her a little smile, brows bowing together as he inclines his head. “You’re a good girl.”

_Good girl_. He sees it explode in her eyes, whizz around her brain. Little fireworks in each pathway and synapse. Hurtle down each vein. Each knot of muscle. Her lips part. Soft, reedy breath billows out. A flush starts in her cheeks, stains the creamy skin the softest shade of crimson. It travels down her throat. Makes the blood beat a little faster beneath her ear. _Good girl_. He’s pretty sure if he whispered it again right now she’d collapse across his desk, cry out to him to let her come. Hard.

Mm, he likes that thought. _Loves_ that thought.

“Say that again.”

_That_ makes him miss a beat. “Miss Stark?”

“Say it again.”

“You’re a good student.” Reins control back, bit by bit. “I mean it. I’m very grateful for your hard work — ”

Cuts across him, eyes full of fire. “That’s not what you said, Professor Snow.”

“Is it not?” Taps the tip of his pen against his bottom lip, considering. “What _did_ I say? I’m afraid it’s slipped my mind, Miss Stark.” She opens her mouth. Shuts it again. Fury in every elegant dip and curve of her face. He makes a show of checking his watch, grimaces up at her apologetically. “Time for our nine o’clock class.” Takes the glasses off his face, tucks them into his top-pocket. “I’m sure we can revisit this later, Miss Stark… I’ll try to refresh my memory in the meantime.”

*

Janitor must’ve cranked the heating up this morning. That’s why she’s so warm. Flushed. Flustered. Hot and bothered sat at the front of a packed lecture-hall at quarter past nine on a freezing winter’s day. That’s why. It’s got nothing to do with the man clicking onto the next slide. Nothing to do with how his wrist flexes as he presses the button down. Nothing to do with the angelic little arched brow expression he casts on a student with their hand raised toward the middle of the hall. Nothing to do with the breathless, smoky chuckle he gives as he considers his answer – or the way he catches his lip between his teeth as he delivers it.

No. Nothing to do with _any_ of that. Nothing to do with what he _said_ earlier, either. Absolutely nothing to do with _that_. Slip of the tongue. He probably did mean to say _student_. He’s a modern man — not some old whitebeard sidling up to pretty students at the departmental drinks reception. Slip of the tongue. Yes. She’s sure of it.

Only she’s not sure of it. Because the way he said it — the way he _shaped_ it — made it feel like he was whispering it into her ear. Lips tracing her skin. Dipping down to her throat. Cool mouth against the blood-blaze turning it crimson. _Good girl_. Tongue pressing white-hot the edge of her jaw. _Good girl_. Nip of teeth to her chin as her lips parted and a moan billowed out —

“Miss Stark?”

She blinks as the disjointed voice draws her out of her reveries. Realises she’s had her eyes shut, rocking a little on her seat. Looks down to find her nails have left little crescent-marks where she’s dug them into her palms. She looks up to find him staring down at her, head a little to one side.

“Are you unwell, Miss Stark?” he asks. “You made a little whimper just then… and you look a fraction flushed.”

Swallows. Thickly. Tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

Nods at her. Neutral expression — but she swears there’s a smirk at the very edges of his lips. Hint of knowing in his smoke-dark eyes. Keeps her legs crossed for the rest of the lecture. Eyes on the clockface over the projector. Breathes deeply. Concentrates on counting down the hours, minutes, seconds. Concentrates on _anything_ but the ache between her elegantly-crossed legs.

*

He buys her a coffee once class is finished. Pretends it’s his way of saying sorry for demanding such a short turnaround on the essays. Really, it’s to watch her squirm. She does a lot of that. Can barely sit still in her seat in the busy bougie café he takes her to a little way from campus. Ironwood benches. Ivy trailing from the ceiling. Intellectuals earnestly discussing world poverty as they nibble at their slabs of carrot cake. He likes this place. Makes him smile ironically.

She sips her coffee. The cups they use here are so big they’re practically soup-bowls. She holds it in both hands; chipped black nail varnish and bone-white china. Lifts it to her lips again. Blows across the little black lake. Takes a swallow. Still a touch of colour to her cheeks. Rose-patterned porcelain. Longs to put his mouth to the velvet blush, cool it down, heat it right back up.

“I’ve given some thought to what you asked of me, Miss Stark,” he says earnestly. “But I’m afraid whatever I said earlier really _has_ slipped my mind.” He sets his coffee-cup back in its saucer, drums his fingertips against its scalding side. “Is my recollection of it terribly important to you?”

Their eyes meet as she runs her thumb back and forth along the handle of her cup. “Do you know, I can’t remember if it was, Professor Snow.” Spark in her eyes. Frowns like she’s considering his question. “At the time it seemed _very_ important. But now… _now_, I really couldn’t say if it’s important or not.”

_Touché_.

He gives a guileless smile. Lets her think she’s in control — for the moment. Stirs a spoon into his cup. Sets it down on the saucer again. Watches the little black drops drip from the silver stem to settle on the bone-white china. Flicks his eyes back up to find she’s staring at him. Quite openly. He gazes back. Waits. Lets her shift a little. Allows her to bask in the little bit of pseudo-triumph lighting up her eyes. Mm, waits. Then —

“What is it that you want, Miss Stark?”

She smiles. Slowly. “You’ve asked me that before.”

“I don’t think you ever gave me an answer.”

Tilts her head to the side, innocent light to that sweet smile. “Neither did you.”

“Don’t skirt the question,” he says evenly. “Answer me.” Fire in her eyes, lips parting to shoot back some smart-ass retort; but he’s one step ahead. Always in control. She’ll learn that soon enough. “Answer me… like a good girl.”

Fourth of July fireworks in her eyes now. “You fucker.”

“Profanity, Miss Stark – at a tenured professor, no less!” He rasps a hand across his beard, shakes his head at her. “You ought to be careful. Bad TAs get demoted… but bad _girls_ get put across the knee.”

Roman candle. Catherine wheel. Firecrackers bursting in her brain. “And good girls?” She rolls it round her tongue like — never mind. He mustn’t think about _that_. Not now. Not yet. “What do good girls get, Professor Snow?”

“Good girls get put across the knee, too…” Sun-warmed honey, the slow spread of his smile. “… but they get a little _something_ as soon as the spanking is done.” Soft lips are open; he can almost _see_ the shape of the moan smoking up her tongue. “Is _that_ what you want, Miss Stark? To be a good girl?” He pretends to be surprised as she shakes her head. One step ahead. He knows _exactly_ what’s coming next. “No? You _don’t_ want to be a good girl?”

Husky edge to her voice. “No.” He can practically _hear_ the fucking heartbeat between her legs. “I want to be _your_ good girl.” 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **NB**: I always had in mind quite a serious backstory amongst all the smut: one that is foundational to what Sansa is seeking in this fic. Then I had so much fun just writing the sexual tension that I questioned whether to leave it simple and cut the sadder shit. Leave it fun. Frilly. Fabulously frivolous. But that’s not me; and it’s not the makeup I want for this world that I am _so_ loving building. So from here-on-out the smut will continue to smoulder and burn and **BLAZE**… but there will _also_ be a little something-something a bit more serious — hints of which are already scattered here-and-about in the words above. Hope that’s okay — and hope you enjoy the chapters that are (pardon the pun…) coming soon! ❤️


	4. Cigarettes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > In the elegant, time-honoured words of Miss Sansa Stark: Fuck. Shit. _Fuck_. 🔥🍷

Soon as it’s out of her mouth she wants to snatch it back, swallow it up. Fuck. Shit. _Fuck_. What the fuck did she just say? Where the fuck did it _come_ from? She was playing him at his own game. She was playing it _well_. He was a fucking puppet dangling from the strings wrapped tight round her fingers. Dancing to her bidding. The ball was in her court. She was in _control_ — then she said _that_.

Didn’t even take much prompting. Embarrassing, really. Tongue racing well ahead of her whirling brain; mouth delivering him _exactly_ what her mind was trying so hard to deny him. But there it is. Fuck. Shit. There it is: hanging on the air between them. Air that is suddenly as scalding as the coffee steaming on the tabletop. _I want to be your good girl_. What is this? Fifty Shades of Fucking Grey? Did she really — _truly_ — just say that?

Teaspoon whining round a coffee-cup rim makes her glance up from her hands. Makes her meet his eyes. He’s looking at her so calmly, so _casually_. Stirring his coffee. Tapping the silver spoon on the edge of the cup every now and then. She’s mesmerised. Takes her a moment to realise his lips are moving.

“It’s amazing,” he’s saying. “How readable your face is. Window straight into what you’re thinking. What you’re feeling.” He sets the teaspoon down on the saucer, nips at his lip. “Embarrassment, yes. Clear to see in the colour of your cheeks… but it’s not just _that_ making you so flustered, is it, Miss Stark?” Languid, the half-smile lifting his cheeks. “You need to come. Badly. It’s written all over you. Shoulders. Throat. The way your hips keep shifting on that chair.” Points a lazy finger at her face now. “Mm, and just _there_ — I see it in your eyes. My God, they are on _fire_.” He picks his spoon back up, stirs casually. “How long has it been? Couple days, couple weeks?”

Opens her mouth, venom on her tongue. “Last night, actually.”

“Really?” he asks pleasantly. “I thought you were up half the night. Grading essays. Oversleeping. Making yourself late to our meeting this morning.” He quirks a brow at her. “Is that not the case, Miss Stark?”

Wants to hit him. “Night before, then.”

“Let me guess.” For fuck’s _sake_, that smile is making her angry. Making her ache, too. “Your little jock-friend in the back-row. What’s his name, again? James? Jeffrey?”

God, of _course_ he knows she can’t remember it. “I don’t think that’s any of your business, Professor Snow.”

“Quite right, Miss Stark.” Something happens to his eyes after he says it: dark smoke turns almost black. “Though it might _become_ my business. Soon. Very soon.” Gives a lazy smile that pierces her breastbone, floods her hips with heat. “_If_ you get your way.”

*

Mm, she _will_ get her way. He has no intention of letting her slip away to nurse her shame in private, go back to smiling at him as if he’s a stranger. No. From the moment she rocked into his class at the start of last semester, he knew _exactly_ what would happen. Exactly what codes of conduct he would break. Exactly what risk he would expose himself to. Exactly what he would teach her. Inside the classroom. Outside of it. So, she _will_ get her way. Of course she will. But he’ll make her work for it. _Ache_ for it.

Bit of the embarrassment has been burnt from her cheeks. Fury simmers there instead. At him. At herself. Because he can see that she knows now he was always in control. Still is. And she _likes_ it. Fierce, fire-eyed as she is — she _loves_ the fact that he could make her fall apart this very minute with a single sentence. Not even a sentence. Two little words. Trip-trip-tripping their way off his tongue.

He raises a brow at her empty cup. “Would you like another coffee?”

“I want a whiskey.” Black nails nipping at the bone-white china. “Double. On the rocks.”

Picks up his own cup. “I could do with a whiskey myself.”

“It’s not even lunchtime.”

Her indignant tone makes him smirk. Just a little. “We’re both adults, aren’t we?” Drains the last of his coffee, meets her eyes as he sets the cup back on the tabletop. “No law against day-drinking that I’m aware of.” Tilts his head to the side. “What do you say, Miss Stark? Shall we find somewhere a little… quieter?”

It really _is_ amazing. The way her face shows him every single scrap of her soul. Can see everything. Eagerness mastered by a flare of her lashes. Excitement nipped away as she bites at the inside of her cheek. The want to refuse him. String him along. Play her own little game. Mm, the impatient way she realises the inevitability of it all. Knows she could as soon refuse him — refuse _herself_ — as starve her lungs of air.

Still, she shakes her head in muted irritation. Chides herself. Fights herself even as she slips her arms into the sleeves of her jacket. Follows him out of the café. Sets the street on fire with every single step.

*

She doesn’t ask if he minds if she smokes. Doesn’t care. Fishes the crushed packet out of her jean-pocket. Slips a cigarette between her lips. Lights up before he can think of something clever to say. Draws in all that dirty, delicious badness. Feels the first soothing rush of nicotine spike in her blood, cloud her brain. Lungs half-full with smoke when he does eventually say something.

“What?”

He stares at her as if she’s stupid. “I _said_ do you have a spare cigarette?”

“You don’t smoke.”

“Don’t I?” He reaches over. Takes the packet from her hand. Voice muffled as he flicks the lighter. “Thank you for that _particular_ bit of wisdom, Miss Stark. If only it were true.” He rubs a thumb against the side of his nose, cigarette dangling from his fingers. “Bad for you. You should quit. _There’s_ a bit of wisdom with some truth in it, Miss Stark.”

Face as unreadable as hers is open. But she doesn’t need to see anything to understand what he’s saying. _Bad for you_. Smoke-rings rising perfectly from his pursed lips. _You should quit_. She should. Right now. Before anything has even happened. Before it’s too late. Taps her cigarette against the ashtray. Bullshit. It’s too late already. She’s invested in — in whatever _this_ is. Knows he is, too.

He swallows the last of his smoke. It escapes his lips as he stubs out the cigarette. Like frigid morning air, framing his face in fog. She watches him find his way to the backdoor of the little bar they’re sat in. Pat his back-pocket to check for his wallet as he slips inside. Her breath billows out. Realises she’s been holding it for the best part of the five minutes they’ve been sat here smoking. Puts the heel of her hand to her forehead.

“Fuck,” she whispers. “Shit. _Fuck_.”

Looks up. Follows the trail of her whisper treading smoke on the air. Drifting upward. Skyscrapers pressing in either side. Blank square of winter cloud at their peak. Soft lights twined round the timber rafters of the trellis stretched across the little bar-garden. Scattered like stars. _Bad for you_. Cigarette burned down to its butt, singeing the skin of her fingers. _You should quit_. Grinds it out in the ashtray. Lets her thoughts — his _threats_ — drift up with the smoke. Mix with the scattered star-lights. Fade away.

*

Getting dark. Barmaid has lit up the braziers in the garden. People come outside. Smoke. Blow on their hands. Flick their cigarette-ends into the ashtrays and disappear back inside. Someone makes a jovial remark that they should do the same. She smiles at that. Raises her empty glass. Slides her eyes across the table as he proffers the half-drained wine bottle at her. Gives him a happy little nod as she takes it.

Whiskey. Wine. Haze of both is keeping him pleasantly warm despite the bitter air. Watches her pour her glass full of ink. Wonders what he’d say if a colleague stumbled out into the bar-garden now. Another student. His departmental head. Saw them sat together, tabletop littered with crushed cigarette packets and half a dozen glasses.

No panic as he wonders it. They’re far enough away from campus. Somewhere deep downtown. Chic, cosy little bar. All fairy-lights and friendly faces. Not frequented by old academic whitebeards. Still, the threat of it. The _thrill_ of it. Mm, it makes the knot in his belly unravel and retie itself a little tighter. Sip of wine to hide his smile.

“I’m all out.”

He looks at her. Quizzical. Glances down at her hands. She’s shaking a crumpled cigarette packet, pulling up the lining as if something will magically fall out. Looks back at her face. She’s smiling despite the muted longing in her tone. Cheeks flushed with wine. White teeth catching the fireflame of the brazier. Scarlet hair half-tucked into the high neck of her black sweater before she whisks it out with a hand. _Jesus Christ preserve me_.

“We’ll get some more on the way back.”

Says it evenly. But she’s hooked on it straight away. “Way back where?”

“Wherever you’d like,” he says, picking up the wine bottle. “Another bar. Subway station.” Drains it into each of their glasses, eyes steady on her own. “Somewhere else… I’m easy.”

Heavy-lidded, the look she sweeps him over with. “I doubt that.” Wrinkles her nose as she takes a sip of the red wine. “Nasty stuff.”

“It’s not the worst I’ve ever had.” It is. “Not the best, either.” He swallows his sip, sees the fire in her eyes reach fever-point. “Still, I’m an academic. Can’t afford to be too fussy.”

Her smile is something else, something holy: sunrise turning her cheeks to honey. “Does fussiness even come into it? Surely, it’s just prioritising where you spend your money, isn’t it?” Jesus _fuck_, his words sound so different in her mouth. Pure sex. Pure smoky, sultry, sexy fucking _sex_. “Having some standards.”

“I think I need a cigarette, Miss Stark.” Sets the empty wine-glass on the table. “I think I _really_ need a cigarette.”

Hums against the edge of her glass as she drains it and — oh Jesus fuck, he will _not_ think about her humming against anything else. Not now. Not yet. “Mm, I think I do, too.” Fingers unfold from the stem as she pushes the glass away. Smiles at him. Slowly. “I’m ready whenever you are, Professor Snow.”

*

She’s in a minimart at midnight. Queueing up to buy cigarettes. Pretending that everything is fine. Normal. Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. Run-of-the-mill type of night. She glances around at her fellow late-night shoppers. Feels a little giddy. They’ve got no idea. _No idea_ what’s _really_ happening. Her. Him. All of it. Shit. Fuck. _Shit_. Look at them. All bored eyes and bright cheeks from the cold air outside. They haven’t got a fucking clue.

Neither has she. That fact is slowly dawning on her. Fuck. Shit. Wine-haze is starting to lift as she asks for two packs of cigarettes. Counts out the change to give over with a note. Smiles her thanks. Slips the packets into her pockets. Brushes past someone coming in through the sliding-doors as she steps out of them.

He’s waiting for her by a street-sign. Neon glow of the city settling on the clean, long lines of him. Dusting his shoulders yellow. Polished shoes a shimmery green. Face soft hues of red as he turns toward her. He still looks like he’s stepped straight out of the pages of a spy novel. But there’s something different about him tonight, too. Hair looks darker. Eyes are softer. Lines of intent crinkling their corners. He looks delicious. Fucking _delicious_. And that is dangerous. Dangerous and — _and_ —

Otherworldly. That’s how this all feels. Her. Him. All of it. Like she’s stepping into the prim-pressed pages of that spy book he looks like he belongs in. Like they’re different people. TA. Professor. Student. Teacher. None of that. It’s like they’re just two people who have spent all day drinking together. Smoking. Sharing. Smiling. Burning up the air between them with every hot look and bitten lip. _That’s_ why this is dangerous. Because it feels normal. Because it feels so fucking _right_.

They walk. Side-by-side. Not touching. Might as well be. She feels his heat as if he’s pressed flush against her. They pass a few sidestreets. Dim little alleyways. Distant thoughts of him pushing her up against the rough, red bricks; tearing her skin-tight jeans down to her ankles. Glances across to him. Sees the same thought bright as the city lights in his eyes. _Fuck_.

Cold air on her cheeks. She’s sober by the time they duck down a broad avenue, head into a decent bit of town. Skyrise apartments. Slim trees lining the leafy street. All glass and fine, white stone. It’s a world away from her student digs down in the belly of the city. Quiet, too. Bit of late-night traffic. Trucks and taxis and cars; but hardly any people. Just her. Mm, just her — and _him_.

Fuck. Shit. _Fuck_.

Realises she’s frozen to the spot when he looks back over his shoulder. He pauses in his crossing of the street, turns back to step to her side. Leans down a little. Looks her straight in the eyes. They stare at each other. God, his _eyes_. Knowing. Waiting. _Daring_. Dark as smoke. Just as hot. Just as dangerous. She wants to suck it up, fill her lungs with it. He lifts a fingertip. Barely skates the piece of hair he’s pushing back from her brow.

“Talk to me.”

She takes a shuddering breath. “I — I don’t know what I’m doing.” Swallows. Closes her eyes tight. “What I’m about to _do_.”

“You don’t have to _do_ anything, Miss Stark,” he says evenly. “I can walk you to the station. See you onto the subway. Get you a cab. We can call it a night. Hey, hey — look at me.” He catches her chin as she shakes her head. Blinks open her eyes to find he’s gazing at her in the _softest_ way. “Whatever you decide is fine. Don’t stress about it.”

Jesus, she almost whimpers at the touch of his hand to her face. “Will you say it?”

“Say what?”

Her fingers slowly rise to wrap around the hand he cups her chin in. “My name.” Smoke-dark eyes; she sees a thread of flame start to burn softly in them. “Not Miss Stark. Say my name. I want to hear you say it.” Kneads his fingers lightly as he works his jaw. “_Please_.”

“Sansa.”

This time, she _does_ whimper. Soft little moan that is swallowed up by her pressing a kiss to his palm. Heaviness in her hips. Heady light in his eyes. _Bad for you_. He bites his lip at the brush of her mouth to his skin. _You should quit_. Too late. Too damn late. Every bit of her is singing, screaming. Takes his hand. Glances over his shoulder to the other side of the street. Tilts her head and catches his eyes again.

“Which building is yours?”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Say my name. Say my name. If no one is around you, say baby_— not yet. We’re NOT THERE YET. But we close. Oooo boy we **close**. Next chapter coming soon. Don’t expect the tension to lessen. At all. ❤️


	5. Magpie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > Oh my God. Okay. It’s happening. Everybody stay calm. Everybody stay f*cking calm! 🔥

Magpie, the way she steps around his apartment. Drawn to the shiny things. Touching this, touching that. Fingertips trailing along the polished marble countertop. Hips swaying a little as she pauses to gaze out of the big window behind the sink. Eyes wide, drinking in the snapshot of cityscape. Ink-dark sky. Scattered stars. Neon-glow tumbling her in shades of red and white and blue.

He hangs back, lets her have some space. Slides the front-door shut quietly. Edges his shoes off. Hangs his jacket up. Night-cool scarf brushing his cheek as he unwinds it. He’s watching her all the while. Head tilted to one side, considering. Magpie, yes. Curious. Light-footed. Pretending at boldness as she sifts through the leaves of a potted fern on the windowsill. But he sees her fingers tremble. Catches the nip of her teeth to her plump bottom lip as she half-turns to look at him.

_Last night, actually_ seems like a long time ago. Wine-flushed cheeks, street-smart mouth. All that’s disappeared. She’s done sassing him. Seeking him out instead. Assurance. Comfort. Something to tell her this is all okay. That _she’s_ okay. Gazes lock together.

Fire in her eyes, still — but it’s down to embers now. Burning softly. Something in him shifts. He’ll set it back blazing soon enough. But slowly. Gently. Everything else will follow. Another day. Another night. No teaching just yet. Treasuring. That’s what he needs to do. Be tender. Make her relax. Breathe. Moan. _Feel_. 

Holds out his hand.

Tension floods from her almost instantly. She’s stepped across the floorboards in half a breath, fingers twined between his own. Rasps a thumb over the back of her hand. Slightest bit of pressure and she’s pressing closer to him. Lips parted. Flames just starting to lick up at the very edges of her eyes. Pressure against his chest. He looks down. Her free hand — palm pressed over his heart. 

His own comes to rest atop it. Lifts it. Rasp of his beard against her palm makes a soft little sound slip up her throat. Her fingers on his lips. He presses kisses to each tip. Slowly. Gently. Flush is back in her cheeks. Breath coming heavier. Sinks lower, mouth sliding down the silk of her palm. Settles at the heel of her hand. Sinks his teeth — gently, _fleetingly_ — into the pale, plump flesh. She moans. 

Guides her hand till it’s resting on the nape of his neck. Lets her settle there. Feels her fingers flex against his skin, slip up to wrap into the dark curls escaping his bun. He mirrors her movements. Trails his hand beneath the weight of her hair. Circles her throat loosely. Notes the fire in her eyes leap and blaze at that. Stops himself squeezing. Another day. Another night. Rubs his thumb the ivory-knife of her jaw instead, slowly rolls it down over her bottom lip.

Moans again. This time it’s a plea.

*

Hands. Fingers. Gentle touches. That’s all he’s done. Hasn’t even kissed her. Hasn’t said a word. Still stood in his moon-dappled living room. Still in her jacket. Her boots. Cigarette packets untouched in her back-pockets. Aching. Not for nicotine. No. For him. For his hands, fingers — fucking gentle, barely-there touches to light up her skin again. Rocks a little on her heels. Moaning again — she can’t help herself.

Magic, that’s what he is. Oh, sure she strutted in here all-guns-blazing after her little frozen episode out on the street. Pretended not to be impressed by his apartment. Touched all his exquisitely expensive, shiny things. Gazed out the kitchen window like she was a prospective buyer eyeing up the view. But inside she was wide-eyed, knock-kneed as a deer on fucking ice. Felt sick. Felt shit. Felt _scared_ — then he held his hand out. 

Melted. Just like that. All the fear. Frenzied feather-strokes ripping up her guts. Spikes making her throat feel like sand. Fist crushing the breath from her lungs. Melted all if it. Made it disappear. Smoke-rings to the sky. Set her on fire instead. Slow at first. But now she’s burning. Blazing. About to _burst_.

“You okay?”

First thing he’s said since they stepped up off the street. Same, even tone. But it’s softer now. Soft as the eyes he keeps hooked on her own. She opens her mouth. Clicks her tongue. Clears her throat. But she can’t speak — not yet. Can only give him a nod: gentle, small, barely-there as the grip he keeps on her jaw. But it’s enough. He smiles at her. Spreads slow; sun-warmed honey sweetening up his face till she can’t contain her whimper at the mere sight of it. Surges forward.

Fuck. Shit. _Fuck_. She’s _doing_ this — she’s really, fucking _doing_ this.

Mouth on his. Her fingers tugging the ink-dark curls at his nape. Tilts his head and she’s tilting hers the opposite way and they fit together. Fit together fucking — fucking _perfectly_. Slants her lips. His tongue slipping past her teeth. Moaning again. Can’t stop. He tastes like whiskey and wine and woodsmoke. Drunk on it. Drowning in it. All she can think is that he tastes so fucking _good_ — and that she’s got too many clothes on. 

One step ahead of her, as always. His fingers skating from her jaw down the line of her throat. Whispering the high neckline of her black sweater. Circling the pendant hanging from the silver chain round her neck. Dipping down to her hip. Lightest brush of his fingers to her bare skin as he slides the sweater up to the curve of her waist. Moans against his mouth. Wants more. More, more, _more_. But his other hand finds the back of her head, gives her hair a gentle jag till she’s pulled from his kiss. Breathing hard. Staring at him.

“This okay?”

Looking at her. Waiting. Thumb slipping beneath the bone-notches of her ribs. Head to one side. Fingers in her hair. Gently twisting it in a rope against her nape. Breath soft. Malt liquor. Tobacco. Rich, dark wine. God, she wants it — _him_ — so much it hurts. Realises she’s staring at him without saying anything. Finds her voice. Finally.

“Yes. Mm, _yes_.”

Sunshine-honey smile again. Swipe of his tongue as he runs it over his bottom lip. Nods his head as he lowers his face to hers again. Something different in his kiss now. Firmer. Filled with confidence. Surrenders to it. Every fibre of her being. Knot of bone. Twist of muscle. Beat of blood. Each and every bit pulsing purely for him. Sweater sliding up over her ribcage. Feels like he’s done this before. Realises he has.

His hands. Smooth as sun-warmed stones. Sliding the sleeves off her arms, tugging the sweater over her head. Brief moment of darkness before the fabric disappears. Moonlight as it finally lifts free. Blinks. Straight up into his eyes. Different expression to that day in the lecture-hall. Dark as smoke. Just as hot. Just as dangerous. She leans forward. Sucks it up. Fills her lungs with it. Fades away.

*

So hard it hurts. Every bit of his body on fire. Impatient. Imploding. _Imploring_ him to move, act, groan — hard, fast, rough. Rip her skin-tight jeans down to her ankles. Turn her onto her belly on the bed. Push her up to her knees. Wick his fingers between her legs and fill her with his cock. Yank a rope of her hair round his fist. Jag her head back and land a smack on her pale, perfect arse. Leave a handprint the same red-warm shade as her sigh.

God, he _wants_ it. She does, too. Reads it. Sees it. Feels it. But he resists. Not now. Not yet. Another day. Another night. Ignores the ache straining against his zipper. Runs his hand the waistband of his jeans. Loosens a little. Pressure lifts — just enough for him to refocus, remember what it is he _really_ wants to do tonight. Be tender. Treasure her. 

Sweater gone. Tee shirt, too. Pools of ink on his living room floor. His mouth on her throat as she shucks her boots off. They clatter against the floorboards, bump down onto their sides. Her fingers flex on his jeans; denim loops, brass belt-buckle, nails nipping at the skin just above it. He catches her hands, pins them in one fist as the other spins her by her hips. Bent over the couch now. Bare back all pearly-limned by the moonlight. Hands caught up across her spine, wrapped between his fingers.

Holds her like that a moment. Lets her settle. Breathe. Soon enough she starts to shimmy. Hips shifting back: searching for him — _seeking_ him. Thighs spreading wider as he slides a knee between her own. Hitched moan in her throat. Head turning just slightly till he can catch the glimmer of her gaze. Burning. Blazing. Bones shifting in the small of her back as she rolls her hips. He looks down. 

Cigarette packets still in her back-pockets. Lifts the hand from her hip to trail it along the stitched seam of her jeans. Ducks into each pocket. Slowly — so _slowly_ that it makes her squirm and whimper. Flexes his fingers against her pert, fucking _perfect_ backside; then eases out each packet. Drops them on the couch cushions she’s staring down at. Listens to her breathing. Waits. Considers. Decides. 

“In a moment, I am going to let go of your hands.” Uses the same calm, even tone he’d use in class, in morning meetings; she moans softly at the sound of it. “You will keep them behind your back even so.” Pauses for half a breath, presses against the curve of her spine as if to reinforce his point. “Do you understand, Miss Stark?”

Doesn’t speak. Nods. Frantically.

Watches her: shoulder-blades scissoring with her quickened breathing, hips still shimmying, knees squeezing against the one he keeps between her legs. Waits. Considers. Decides. Releases her hands. She keeps them there obediently, fingers gripping at her own wrists, locking herself in place. Smiles to himself. Trails his hand back and forth over the swell of her lower back. Mumbling something, her mouth pressed against the couch cushions.

“Please,” she’s saying. “Please. _Please_.”

Realises he guessed right. Handling. That’s _exactly_ what she wants and needs. Someone to match her fire. Not tame it. Blow on it. Make it burn and blaze and _burst_. Make her work for it. Mm, make her _beg_ for it. Listens to her little prayer — _please, please, please_ — heart on fire to realise she’s already doing exactly that: burning, blazing, bursting, _begging_.

Jesus fuck, she keeps that up it’ll spell an end to the fragile control he’s keeping over himself. Even harder now. Every bit of him itching, searing, aching. Body still imploding. _Imploring_ him to move, act, groan — hard, fast, rough. _Please, please, please_. Electric, the pull her muffled moany little voice has on him. Flush against her before he can even think. Mouth pressed to her ear. 

“Please what?”

*

Takes a moment to react to his voice at her ear. Too busy registering the shift in his position. The bite of his shirt-buttons against her bare back. Ink-dark curls spilling over his brow, whispering the skin of her cheek. _Please what?_ Frowns as the echoes of it brush her lobe, burst like stars behind her eyes as she realises what he’s asking. Realises she’ll answer it _exactly_ how he wants her to.

“Please, Professor Snow.”

Smoky, the breathless sound he makes as she whispers it. One hand on her hip. Other curled round her jaw. Turning her till he’s nosing at her cheek. Fingertip pressed against her lips. Smells like tobacco. Tastes like whiskey as he pushes it into her mouth. Parts her teeth, wraps her tongue round it reflexively. Deeper sound now from in his throat. She _feels_ its vibrations between her thighs. Shifts them, desperate for some friction — but his knee is still slid between her own, holding her in place. Rocks on the soles of her feet. His fingers dig into her hip. 

“Patience, Miss Stark.”

“But — ”

“Just breathe.”

Lung-aching breath. Stretches out her ribs, makes her already-singing skin burst out into a new pretty tune. Biting at the couch cushions now. Shit. Fuck. _Shit_. Everything is tight and taut and trembling. She can _feel_ how wet she is. Making a mess of her jeans. Thong twisted up; pressing on her clit in _the_ most delicious way. Light-headed, blinking fast, nails nipping at her own wrists as he trails his thumb along the back of her bra, slides under the strap to trace the day-old indent. Pulls it back slowly. Breath hitched in her throat.

Releases it. Makes it ping against her skin. Softest snipe of sting. And she’s actually groaning. Playground-pulling of her bra-strap and she’s whimpering into a fucking pillow, so fit to burst she feels like she could come _right now_ if he’d just let her rub her thighs together. Locks her knees against his. All she can do. Clench on him in any way she can. Pulsing. Pool of heat working its way to escape the confines of her panties.

Leaves her bra-strap. Fingertips trailing down her spine till they reach the waistband of her jeans. Hook in. Pull back sharply till she’s flush against the bulge in his trousers. Keeps his fist twisted round her leather belt, uses it to roll her hips very slightly. Belly-deep moan as her clit rasps against the tightened seam of her jeans. He lets it linger there for half a breath. Then loosens the pressure. She could weep. She could really, truly fucking _weep_.

“Earlier you lied to me.” Gravel and smoke and pure fucking _sex_, the husk of his voice as it scrapes the hollows of her heart. “Now tell me the truth… when did you last come?”

Anything. She’ll tell him _anything_ right now. “Last week.”

“In your own bed? With your own hand?”

Doesn’t miss a beat. “Yes.”

“Did you think of me?”

_Fuck_. She really _can’t_ tell him — “Yes… _yes_.”

Suddenly she’s spun round onto her back. Still bent over the sofa; but his hands are on her hips, keeping her lower body flush against his own. Her hands fly for grip. Couch cushions buckling beneath her fingers. Eyes on his lips. Watching the words he’s shaping soundlessly. Too much blood rushing in her ears to hear him. But she sees it. She knows. _Good girl_. Knees like water. Mind blank of everything but him and what he’s whispering — _good girl, mmm, good girl_ — and it’s perfect. It’s fucking perfect.

Her fingers on his belt. His thumb tapping the brass-button of her jeans. Her other hand lifts from the couch, hooks onto the collar of his shirt. Drags his head down. Surprise in his eyes. Like a drunk man recognising something. Follows the pull of her hand. Rolls his bottom lip between her teeth as she draws back from their kiss.

“Please,” she’s saying. “_Please_, Prof — ”

“You can call me Jon,” he murmurs. “Just this once.”

Kisses her again. Black and white and blue and grey behind her eyes. Scattered stars as the taste of him explodes across her tongue. Whiskey. Wine. Nicotine. _Jon_. Feels him spike in her blood stronger than everything else. Lets herself melt into him till she can’t tell where she stops and he begins. Relief. _Relief_ that it’s finally time to spin, sink. Fade away. _Forget_.

*

Dangerous. This is dangerous. Because he feels drunk. On her. Whiskey burnt off by the heat in his blood. Light-headed, though. Edges of his eyes blurred. Heart bursting white-hot in his chest. Because all this feels — feels _more_ than it should. _He_ is feeling more than he should be feeling. Knows he’s coasting the high right now. Can’t even think about the inevitable comedown. Not now. Not yet. 

Control threatening to slip. He mustn’t let it. He needs to keep a grip on it. _She_ needs him to keep a grip on it. Her eyes are different. Heady. Hazy. Like she’s high. Magpie looking at him as if he’s the shiniest thing she’s ever seen. Fingertips sifting through his curls like the fern-leaves on the windowsill. Only this time there’s no pretence at boldness. She’s touching him with purpose — like she’s aware of the power she’s sparking over him with every trail of her nails against his neck. 

“Jon?”

Jesus _fuck_. His name in her mouth. Nearly breaks him, the way she breathes it. First name, Christian name — no-one has ever called him _that_ in situations like this. He’s never let them. Boundaries. Distance. Something to keep danger from descending. Now she’s whispering it like it’s something holy, like it’s a fucking prayer drifting up as smoke to the sky. And there he is desperately holding himself back from chasing up its trails, grasping with his fingertips, sucking it up from the air, filling his lungs with it.

Doesn’t let any of it show. Pretends the fire in her eyes — the smokiness of her voice — is washing him in soothing waves of heat. But it’s not. It’s searing him. Scalding him. Setting every bit of him ablaze till he’s helping her with the buttons of his shirt. Tearing the prim-pressed fucking _suffocating_ fabric off his arms. Fingertips on bare skin; breath sucked between his teeth as her nails nip into the plump muscles of his shoulders. 

Rush of night-cool air to his chest clears his head a little. Fogs right back up as she presses her lips to his pulse-point. Trails them up over the ridge of his jaw, the smooth skin of his cheek above his beard. Jesus. Fingers whispering from his shoulder to his chest. Magpie, the way she moves them. Light-footed. Curious. Sparkle in her eyes as she registers his reaction. Savage leap in his belly at the heady triumph shining in those sapphire depths. Body screaming at him now. Control. Get it back. _Get it back_.

Sweet as honey, the whimper-moan-shout she makes as he wraps a rope of her hair round his fist and pulls back sharply. Heady, hazy high burning up in her eyes as her head tips back immediately. Offers him her throat. Ivory in the moonlight. Puts his mouth to it. Soft, glancing lips — then the sting of his teeth. Sucks back; watches the bruise turn bright as a ruby on her pale skin. Watch each other. Magpie in the snare of his arms, his lips. No place she’d rather be. Another little jag of her hair and she’s opening her mouth, soft-lipped moan sending shivers across his skin.

“_Jon_.”

Not a question. This time it’s a plea. 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You thought I’d be what — _kind_? No. Absolutely not. Of course it doesn’t wrap up here. It overflows into the next f*cking chapter. **You’re welcome**. Also yes, you noticed correctly. 10 chapters. **10**! Here's hoping you enjoy each and every one... ❤️


	6. Ragdoll

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > Expect a bump. Or two. Or twelve. _Sorry_. 🙊

Navy sheets. Moon-cut shadows on the soft grey walls. Biggest bed she’s ever seen. Ebony or dark-stained oak. Piled high with charcoal sheets, dark comforter, throws, cushions. On her back amongst them all. Hair fanned out across the pillows. Ink-dark curls tickling her throat as he looks down, takes himself in hand. Fuck. Shit. _Fuck_.

Thighs spread wide. Cock slipping up and down slick, hot folds. Circling. Sliding. And it’s so close — so fucking _close_ that she feels herself contract in anticipation. Thighs inching wider. Hips canting up. Ready for him. So utterly, fucking ready for him that her head rolls on the pillow, eyes flying to meet his own. He smiles then. Slowly. 

“Patience, Miss Stark.”

He pulls back. She whines. Loudly. Toes curling, nails nipping at her brow as she rocks her head in her hands. Hates him. Hates him. _Hates_ him. But would also do anything — _anything_ — for him right now if it meant he’d push inside her. Because she needs it. Needs it so badly. The push, pulse, stretch; sweet, deep ache. Needs to lose herself in a feeling more all-consuming than the thoughts threatening to press in at the edges of her mind. Hailstones. Heartache. _Home_. Nails slicing at the skin of her forehead now. No. No, no, _no_. Fights through the haze, tries to find her voice.

“Please,” she’s whispering, whimpering. “_Please_, Jon.”

His hands. Smooth as sun-warmed stones. Sliding to circle her wrists, pulling her fingers away from her face. Stares up at him. _Please, Jon, please_. Gazes down at her. Strokes a strand of hair back from her brow. Then nods. Doesn’t say anything. Just nods as he kisses her. Soft and slow and sad and sweet. Like somehow he knows what she’s running from. Like he understands it. She can only close her eyes. Spread her thighs. Grip onto his shoulders. _Please, Jon, please_. Wait for that sweet, deep, mind-blanking ache.

*

Tries not to look at the little crescent-marks her nails have left on her brow. Pits of red against pale skin: rose-patterned porcelain. _Tries_ not to look. Can’t help his lips, though. Kisses being pressed to the marks — each and every one — before he’s even aware he’s doing it. She moans at the contact. He swallows the sound in a kiss that leaves them both breathless. Leaves him wondering who is in control of who here. 

Jesus _fuck_. He needs to get inside her. Needs to make her come. Rein back control. Get a bit of clarity. Compute what the fuck is happening here. Try to make sense of it. Muscles in his back tense. She feels them flex beneath her fingertips, rolls her head to look up at him. Hair a streak of fire burning against the charcoal pillows. Her eyes. Her fucking _eyes_. Great, blue pools. Dip, dive, _drown_. No control so long as he’s staring into them.

“Hands and knees.”

Manages to chase the softness from his command. Chimes out hard: church-bell struck on a cold morning. Breaking up the cloud. Carrying echoes on the air. As if it’s God’s own voice, the speed with which she obeys it. Rolls over. Bows down on her elbows. Back arched, arse in the air. Toes curling against her soles as she rocks her hips, thighs parting. Salt-streaks on her skin; she’s so wet it shines in the moonlight. Fingers twisting into the pillows as she throws a look at him over her shoulder.

“Inside,” she whispers. “Want you inside.”

Jesus _fuck_. But he masters his face. Flexes a palm across the pale, unmarked flesh of her backside. Digs in his nails for a little bite as he waits for her to understand. Takes half a breath before her eyes clear. He nods in encouragement. Rocks back against him, lips parting as she moans softly.

“_Please_.”

“Good girl.”

“Say that — ”

Whatever she was about to demand is lost to the mattress as he slides inside her, makes her elbows buckle and mouth muffle at the sheets. _Fuck_. So wet she takes all of him in one slow push. Still, he waits a moment once he’s flush against her. Tries to control his breathing. Hammer of his heart. _Fuck_. Fire in her eyes nothing compared to the sweet, deep heat cloaking his cock. _Fuck, fuck, fuck_. Trails his hand from the nape of her neck down her spine. Strokes the swell of her hip. Grips it tight as he pulls back.

Tentative, his first thrust. Next one makes her unfurl like a flower. Limbs loosening, fingers scrabbling at the sheets. Third has her on the cusp of falling apart. He sets a hand on the small of her back. Other one steadying her hip. Keeping her captive to the rhythm he’s creating: thump of the headboard against the wall, soft sound of their skin slapping, muffled keening as she moans into the mattress.

The sight of her. Sound of her. Feel of her. _Fuck_. Groan rips up from his throat before he can swallow it. Chimes out hard: church-bell echoing on moonlit air. She answers it with all the high-harp beauty of a fucking choir. Melody now. Bleeding together. Doesn’t know where she ends and he begins. Dangerous. Fucking _dangerous_. And too damn delicious to stop. Not now. Not yet.

*

Ragdoll, that’s how she feels. Filled. Fucked hard. Taken over. _Handled_. He’s in control. Blurring up her brain. Making her fade away. Sharpening the edges of feeling even as he smooths over the memories that seek to rip at her mind like thorns to skin. All of it melting into the background as he works her hard and fast and rough and — and it feels so fucking good. So. Fucking. _Good_. 

Everything narrowing. Focusing. Building. Waves of heat cresting between her hipbones. Makes a whimper. Somehow he understands. Hand leaves her hip, snakes to skate across her belly. Dips between her thighs. She rocks back hard as his fingers find her clit, roll a slow circle that has her ducking onto her forehead, eyes sweeping down to look at where they’re joined. Sight of his fingers — his sun-browned, strong, self-assured fingers — working her _there_. Makes fireworks explode behind her eyes. 

Something shiny falling into view. Blinks. Silver chain she keeps strung round her neck. Catching the moonlight. Wolf-pendant, moonstone inlay. And suddenly she’s thinking — thinking of — _fuck_. Falling away from her. Everything. All of it. Replaced by things that _hurt_. Hailstones. Heartache. _Home_. Scrabbles at the sheets, fingertips digging in as if she can fight herself free of the memories, fuck herself back into feeling sweet things that don’t tear her apart.

But it’s ruined. Because — because what _is_ this? What are they? TA. Professor. Two bodies twined up so tight she feels like they’re the same fucking _thing_. Right now it feels so good. So full and sweet and perfect. But tomorrow? Next class? Next meeting? How the fuck will she even _look_ —

“Stop.” Life-ring in a rising tide, the way his voice circles her, drags her back to shore. “Stop stressing about it. Stop fighting it.” Steady strokes — _in_side, _out_side — as he fills her and flutters his fingers. “Just breathe. Breathe — and give yourself over to me.” Waves of heat closing back over her head now; she moans lowly. “I’ve got you now, Miss Stark. I’ve got you.” Starting. Fire bursting between her thighs. “That’s it… good girl.” Flames flushing. Fireworks shattering her soul. “_Good_ girl.” 

Trembling. Every bit of her. Thighs bursting with an ache she’s been ignoring since she first got on her hands and knees. Belly heaving. Shoulders strained. Tits cut in half by her forgotten bra. All of it floods back – bit by bit – as her climax rocks down through her spine. Mouth dry from moaning. Throat feels like sand.

Stays bent up the bed. Foggy head. Everything vague. Happening in the background. Him pulling out. Tying off a condom she never even noticed him put on. Snap of a waistband as he steps into his boxers. He doesn’t switch on the sidelight. Grateful for that. Must look a state. Face-down, arse in the air. Rocks back onto her haunches slowly. Winces. She’ll ache tomorrow. Something soft brushing her shoulder.

Looks up to find him staring down at her, holding out her tee shirt. She takes it with a little smile. Tucks herself back into her bra, pulls the shirt over her head. Moves to sit on the edge of the bed, hand searching for her panties on the hardwood floor. Shimmies into them as she stands up. He’s watching her. All soft eyes. Just-fucked hair. Smile still stretched on her cheeks. But her lips are trembling now.

Doesn’t say anything. Just nods as he watches her. His eyes. The way he’s looking at her. Soft and slow and sad and sweet. Like somehow he knows what she’s running from. Like he understands it. This. Her. Them. _All_ of it. And suddenly it’s too much because — _because_ she doesn’t even understand it herself. Fuck. Shit. _Fuck_. Runs her fingers through her hair. Bends to pick up her jeans. 

He shifts a little. “That was — ”

“I should go.”

He looks as surprised as she feels at her words. Because she doesn’t want to go. She wants to stay. Let him make her a coffee. Smoke a cigarette together. Maybe go back to bed. Wake up next to him in the morning. Deepen the ache between her legs as the sun makes shadows at the window. She opens her mouth to say as much; but he’s shaking his jeans out over the bed, searching for his phone.

Finds it. “I’ll call you a cab.”

“Oh — right. Yeah. _Yes_.” Fumbles for words as he frowns at the phone-screen. “Good idea. Can I just use your — ”

“First door on the left.”

Bundles up the rest of her clothes. Slips off to the bathroom. Looks into the mirror. Shrugs into her sweater. Can’t quite meet her own eyes as she smooths the silver chain down against her chest, rasps a thumb over the wolf-pendant. Hailstones. Heartache. _Home_. Flashing back now as her high burns off. Draws her hair back into a ponytail. Pulls it tight enough to hurt. Doesn’t even wince.

*

He watches her from the window. Wouldn’t let him walk her down to the street. Smiled at him, said she was fine. Didn’t believe her. Let her go anyway. _Call me Jon_ to _call you a cab_. How the fuck did it go from one to the other? Leans his forehead to the glass. Faux-fur collar turned up against her throat. Neat little boots stepping to the kerb. Can’t tear his eyes away as she folds herself into the cab. Streak of fire disappearing behind a yellow door.

Be tender. Treasure her. Throw her out whilst the sky’s still dark. Fuck. He’s a prick. He really is. Cab-lights fading into the gloom of a far-off dawn. Fog settling on the spires and rooftops of the city. Watches it spread, watches the cab disappear into it. Wants to snatch her back from its smoke. Wrap her up in his arms. Whisper that he’s sorry. Won’t though. Can’t now – he’s missed his chance.

Stands at the window till his forehead is numb from the night-cool glass. Pushes back from it with a sigh. Finds a crystal tumbler, fills it with whiskey. Body winding down. Growing heavy. Every bit of the high flooding from his veins. Inevitable comedown hits him at the same time as the whiskey burns up the breath in his throat. Swallows it anyway. Pours another. Stokes the fire in his belly. Sinks the glass.

Coasted the high. Comedown now. All the clarity of it. _Call me Jon_. No-one has ever called him that in bed. Much as they’ve asked and begged and pleaded. Always said no. Gave them a spank for their trouble. But her — with _her_ he fucking _gifted_ it. Asked her to. Revelled in the sound of it in her mouth. Stupid. Pathetic. And a prick. That’s what he is. Dipped into the danger, broke the boundaries, overshot the distance. Played with fire. Got burnt. Fucking _idiot_. 

Sags down onto the sofa. Hears a soft creak. Looks down to find the cigarette packets he fished out of her back-pockets. Feels like a lifetime ago. Her bent over the back of the couch, skin all pearly in the moonlight. Before the ghosts crowded into her blue, blue eyes. Rubs a hand down over his face. Picks up one of the packets. Slides on bare feet over to the balcony doors.

Lights up as he looks out over the city. Thinks back to the bougie little café, the bar, the brazier throwing up sparks into the darkening air. Thinks of her. Wine-flushed cheeks. White teeth catching the fireflame. Scarlet hair. Smile on her face as she shook out the empty cigarette packet. _Bad for you_. Watches his breath billow out over the balustrade. _You should quit_. Frowns. Stubs out his cigarette. Decides he won’t follow his own advice. Won’t quit her. Not now. Not yet.

*

She’s out the cab and halfway up the steps before she realises the pockets she’s patting are empty. Jacket, jeans. Rifling through her bag. Then she remembers. Can _see_ them: two cigarette packets dropped onto the couch cushions he had her bent over. Feels like a lifetime ago. Ragdoll, then. Fit to bursting, all sweet aches and soft sounds. Now she’s like a pebble in a palm; heart rattling round the hollows of her chest.

Presses a hand down between her breasts to try and crush the ache. Unlocks the front-door to her block. Traipses up the sagging staircase. Lets herself into the apartment. Hand curled to a fist now, twisting into her jacket as she ferrets through another bag hanging on her bedpost. Comes up good. One single, slightly-bent cigarette. Thin smile of triumph. Finds a lighter. Cracks open the window in the living room; slides out onto the fire-escape, fingers still clutching at her chest.

Smokes quietly for a moment. Half-squinting at the view. Faint thread of dawnlight just edging the ink-dark sky. Flickers of neon spilling before her: rooftops, windows, street-signs glowing all hours of the night. Closes her eyes. Lets the freezing air wash over her. Fight the heat in her blood. But it wins out; her cheeks stay warm despite the cold.

Thinks of him. His hands. Holding her. Handling her. It felt such — such a _relief_. To have someone blur the edges for her. To forget everything without — without _pretending_. Parties. Late nights. Lipstick-stained pillowcases. Short skirts and smoke-rings. Rubbish one-night stands. That’s what it’s all been for. Bit of fun, bit of freedom; bit of _something_ to help her _forget_. But that’s not her. Has _never_ been her. And somehow he _saw_ that. Somehow he understood that — and helped her forget anyway. Didn’t question, didn’t pry; just gave her what she was wordlessly begging for. _Fuck_. 

Phone vibrates in her pocket. She hooks it out. Scrolls down the screen. Looks at all the things she’s been ignoring. Missed calls. Midnight messages. Robb. Arya… Mum. Drift of ash falls from the cigarette clamped between her lips. One last, hard look at the crowded screen. Then she locks it. Puts it back in her pocket. Takes the cigarette between her fingers and inhales deeply. Closes her eyes. Fades away.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The course of true love never did run_— what? Who said that? Love? This isn’t about _love_, true or otherwise. Idiot. Or is it? Who the fuck knows anymore? Certainly not our characters. Bear with. Bear _with_ — it _will_ get better. Promise. ✨❤️


	7. Frost Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > Threat of snow. Bit of sense. Wrap up warm. Hold on tight. ❄️

Soft light disturbing the darkness behind his eyes. Blinks them open. Slowly. Turns his head. Cheek pressed to navy sheets. In bed, lying on his belly. Classical music drifting up from the bedside table. Groans. Mouth like a desert. Groggy head. Half-closed eyes as he swats at the alarm. Went to bed sober — so why the fuck is he waking up with a hangover worse than anything he experienced in his twenties?

Dives his face back into the sheets. Cool, dark. Soft scents: washing powder, aftershave, malt liquor, tobacco. Something sweeter. Revels in it for half a breath. Then freezes. Muscles tight, fingers twisting into the pillows above his head. Last night’s perfume. Transferred from her skin to his sheets. Finds himself remembering it. _Aching_ for it. All of it. Her warmth. Her wide, blue eyes. Her woodsmoke scent.

“Fuck. _Fuck_.”

Jumps up from the bed like it’s suddenly scalding hot. Husky voice still echoing against the ceiling as he claws his fingers back through his hair. Sheet still tangled round him. He wrenches free of it; shakes it out as he throws it back across the bed. Something jingles. Clatters onto the hardwood floor. Something shiny.

Magpie, the way he swoops down to pick it up. Earring. Big silver hoop. Must’ve got snagged when she was face-down on the bed. Cradles it in his palm. Like it’s a piece of treasure. Like it’s some priceless fucking artefact and not a dime-a-dozen bit of metal owned by half the country.

Frowns down at it. Not treasure. Not priceless. But it’s _hers_. Somehow that makes it something _more_ than a dime-a-dozen bit of metal. Jesus fuck. His heart hurts, just a little; and that panics him because — because _God_, what a fucking _mess_. Closes his palm around her earring. Presses the heel of his hand to his forehead. Shuts his eyes. Takes a deep, shuddering breath. Tries to rein back control. Bit by bit.

*

Wakes up cold. Room a wash of wintry sunlight. Curtains half-open. Frost flowers spiralling across the window. She rolls onto her back, comforter pulled up to her chin. Looks vacantly at the ceiling. Went to bed feeling startlingly sober; but now it feels like she sunk an entire bar last night. Hazy head. Heavy eyes. Tobacco on her tongue. Stretches her toes beneath the sheets. Shifts her hips. Winces. Ache between her legs.

Floods back then. Him. Her. All of it. Hands. Fingers. Gentle touches. Sharp jag on her hair that made her drag him to his bedroom. On all fours. Strain in her thighs. Grip on her hips. Ragdoll. Filled. Fucked hard. Taken over. _Handled_. Forgot everything. _Everything_. God, it was so good. So fucking _good_ to just forget completely. She rolls her fingertips down across her closed eyes, grips her cheeks as she blinks back up at the ceiling. Wishes she hadn’t left his apartment. Wishes she’d stayed. Wishes they could make sense of last night together. Wishes they could do it all again. Fuck. Shit. _Fuck_.

Phone vibrating distracts her. Some crazy, heart-leaping thought that it’s him. That she can fix some of the mess that is last night. Taps at the screen, presses it to her ear. Breathes something that sounds vaguely like a greeting. Waits for his voice. Velvet smoke. Well-aged whiskey wrapping her up, making her brain blur. But it’s not him.

“You’re a hard woman to get hold of these days.”

Heart crushes in her chest. “I — _yes_.” Tongue thick as she trips over it. “Sorry. Life’s been hectic. College. Essays. And — and I’ve got a new job. TA.” 

“That’s great, Sansa. That’s all… _great_.” Rustling of something against the phone: ear, hair, jacket-lapel. “We miss you, though. Here at home. Especially on Sundays. Mum still makes up an extra plate. Well, an extra two — ”

Can’t hear it. Can’t _bear_ to hear it. “How are _you_, Robb?” Cuts across him, swallows up his words with her babble. “How’s work? And Jeyne?”

“Jeyne’s great. Work not so much.” Distracted for a little while. Precious minutes of chit-chat that let her breathe. But then he pauses. “I was looking at the calendar the other day. Nearly Christmas and all that. And I realised that you haven’t been home since… since the funeral, Sans.”

Heart stutters. Stills. _Shatters_. “Flights are too expensive right now. I’ve checked.”

“Mum’s worried about you,” he says softly. “She saw some photos off your Instagram. Drinking. Smoking. Said you’ve got big eyes in one — ”

Lips firming up. “Did Arya show her them?”

“I don’t know.”

“She _did_! For fuck’s sake.” Panic closing up her throat; but she fights through it. “Look, I’m fine, okay? Odd glass of wine. Couple of cigarettes. But I’m _fine_, Robb. So you can drop me from your cosy meetings every Sunday. I’m not a problem.” Claws at her brow. “I don’t need _discussing_ or — or _fixing_.”

“You’re fine,” he repeats quietly. “That’s good… so you’ll be home for Christmas?”

“I — Robb, I don’t know. I don’t know anything right now.” Strands of hair twisted round her fingers, tight enough to tear. “Just give me some space, okay? That’s all I need.”

“Okay, sis. Space. I can do that.” 

“I’m sorry, Robb. I — I really am sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for — and Sans?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ll make sure Arya stays away from your social media.” Shuffle of something again: jacket-lapel, ear — hair as red as her own. “Love you.”

*

Follows his age-old Friday routine. Slower morning. No suits. Thick, soft sweater in place of a prim-pressed shirt. Glances out the window as he stands at his shoe-rack. Sky looks heavy. Dark grey. Threatening to spill snow like smoke from a fire. Might fall. Might hold off. Decides on his winter boots. Just in case.

Walks past the subway station, breath misting on the air. Leather bag bumping against his side. Gloved hands thrust deep in the pockets of his jacket. Keeps his eyes on the sidewalk. Better that way. Easier. Because it annoys him. Annoys him that whenever he accidentally glances up, his eyes fall on something that reminds him of her.

Streak of scarlet hair tucked beneath a woollen hat. Crumpled cigarette packet kicked to the kerb. Faux-fur jacket in a shop window. Yellow taxis. Fucking _yellow taxis_ remind him of her — in a city fucking ram-packed full of the bloody things. Jesus _fuck_. Control. Get it back. _Get it back_. He ducks down into his coat-collar, thrusts his hands a little deeper into his pockets, stomps on down the street.

First snowflake falls as he’s passing through the black-iron gates onto campus. Catches on the statues, the stone-posts; turns the terracotta paving-slabs a fine shade of pearl. Soon enough his shoulders are dusted. Powdered sugar landing on his lashes. Turns his face skyward. Revels in the coolness. Softness. Thinks of her fingertips sifting through his curls like the fern-leaves on the windowsill.

Bit of fun, that’s all this was meant to be. Her. Him. All of it. Word-games. Battle of wills. Bit of heat to warm them both over winter. Threat of discovery. Thrill of getting caught. Rough sex. Hard orgasms. Each of them going their separate ways afterwards. But _that_ wasn’t enough for him, was it? Had to stoke up the fire in her eyes. Make it burn and blaze and _burst_. Well it did — it fucking _has_. Burst all over him. Burned up all his careful control, his cool looks, casual indifference.

Jesus fuck. Stood out in the snow and he’s burning up. Skin aflame. Blood so hot his veins are searing against his skin. On _fire_. But what did he _expect_? Played with fire. Got burnt. Prick. Idiot. Fucking _idiot_. Breathes deep. Control. Get it back. _Get it back_. Bitter laugh. Who is he kidding? It’s gone. Burnt up with the last little bit of his own good sense.

*

Said it so softly; but the words still sing. _Love you_. Almost an afterthought. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world to love a sibling that splits on her family, scatters like ash to the wind. _Love you_. Like she’s worth the weight of those words. Like she even knows what they _mean_ anymore.

Claws her fingers through her hair. Lets out a silent scream as she stares up at the snow-heavy sky. God, she needs to escape. Needs to forget. Needs to get fucked. _Hard_. Into another dimension. Needs to make her brain go blank. Make her nerves sing a different tune. Make her heart quieten down in her chest, beat to another’s rhythm. Finds her phone. Starts to type. Frantically. Realises she doesn’t have his phone-number. Email? She is _not_ fucking emailing him.

So, what _is_ she doing? Doesn’t know. Doesn’t care. Shoving her head through a sweater. Pulling the roll-neck high around her throat. Jeans. Boots. A jacket that makes her look like the Michelin Man. Face bare of makeup. Hair in a long plait trailing the small of her back. Finds a hat, jams it on as she heads toward the front-door.

“Where you going?” Margaery. Leaning against a counter in the kitchen. Cereal spoon half-raised to her lips. “Weather’s something awful out there.”

“Just to the store.” Shakes an empty packet as she gestures toward the door. Gives a sunny smile. “Out of cigarettes. Be back soon.”

Blowing up to be a blizzard as a truck hurtles past in the street. Snowflakes stinging her eyes as she skips down the steps. Quiets once the truck’s gone. Falls softly. Frost flowers dangling on invisible threads. Bumping onto her shoulders. Catching at her lashes. Dampening the ends of her braid. _Love you_. Tries not to think about it. Robb’s warm voice. _Drinking_. _Smoking_. Christmas. Mum serving up an extra plate. Eyes burning with tears now.

Sniffs. Won’t cry. Hasn’t cried. Not when the news broke. Not at the funeral. Not once since. Closest she’s got to crying was last night. When her professor wouldn’t let her come. When he twisted her jeans up till she felt like she could weep. What the fuck does _that_ say about her? Couldn’t cry at a fucking funeral; but could barely hold back from sobbing in her desperation to get fucked. Takes a breath. Sounds funny: partway between a moan and a sob. Bites her knuckles to keep the tears at bay.

Phone in her pocket, fingers gripped tight around it. Suddenly she wants — _needs_ — nothing more than him. His hands. Holding her. Handling her. Taking her over. Making her forgot everything. Bringing her back under control. _Please, please, please_. Takes a deep, shuddering breath. Looks down at the phone in her hand. No phone-number. Just email. A fucking _email_. It’ll have to do. Scrolls down. Finds the last one with his name. Days ago. When things were _normal_. Essays to be marked. Deadlines set. Ignores that. Clicks reply. Thumbs tap-tapping at the screen. Writes a message out. Deletes it. Writes it out again.

*

Still following his age-old Friday routine. Keeping a little semblance of order and control. No class on Fridays. No meetings. No first-years tapping at his door to discuss some inane point he marked them down for in an essay. No colleagues hanging their heads round the frame, begging for a favour. Nobody here. Not even the janitor. Nothing to distract him. Except his own treacherous, torturous thoughts. 

Tries to work through their fog. Stays late. Files things he’s left lying around for weeks. Stamps something that’s been sitting on his desk since Monday morning. Signs a form. Provides a reference. Hangs out the window as he smokes a cigarette, wafts the smoke away from the fire-alarm. Sits back at his desk. Glances back out to the window.

Dark sky. No moon. Charcoal clouds still sifting out snowflakes. Watches them catch at the window, bloom like frost flowers across the glass. A lone thought in his head now. Most bizarre one yet. Her. In the snow. Red hair covered by a woollen hat. All he can think is how much he hopes that she is warm. Looks away.

Her earring glitters where he set it on his desk earlier. Magpie, the way it catches his eye as it sparkles in the dim light. Dime-a-dozen bit of metal; but it looks like some ornament propped up against the lamp. Nothing special. Big silver hoop. But it’s _hers_. Some impulse makes him fire up his laptop. Click onto his emails.

It pings at the same time as the phone on his desk rings.

“Hello?”

“Professor Snow?”

Glances back at the window as he cradles the phone to his ear. “It is he. Speaking?”

“My name is Robb Stark.”

Hopes she’s got a hat on. That’s all he can think. “Good evening, Mr Stark.”

“I hope you don’t mind me ringing up like this.” Something shifts against the phone: ear, hair, jacket-lapel. “Looked up your office hours online. I’m pretty sure my sister takes one of your classes.”

Snow. Scarlet hair. Whatever this man is going on about. “Your sister?”

“Yes. Sansa.” A pause. “Sansa Stark?”

Fuck. “Miss — Miss _Stark_. Yes. She does. Take my class.” Scrabbles at the phone-cord, twines it round his fingers. “From Middle English to Macbeth. Star student.” Scowls as his traitorous brain conjures up images entirely inappropriate: naked back, salt-streaked thighs, teeth flashing in a low, sweet moan. “Works as my TA. I’m sure she’s told you. Capable… very _capable_ young woman.”

“That’s good to hear, Professor Snow.” Warm voice turns a touch hazy. “We’ve all been a little worried about her. Lots of missed calls. Unanswered emails. At one point I was tempted to get on a plane and track her down myself.” Throat being cleared, rustle of fingers streaked through hair. “Our — our father died last year, you see. Christmas Eve. Bad weather. Hailstones. Cracked windscreen. The driver didn’t see him as he crossed the road. Sansa took it very hard. We — we all did. But Sansa broke away as soon as the funeral was done. Haven’t seen her since…”

Usually so smug. Self-assured. Always has the right thing to say. But he’s speechless. Struck dumb. Listening to this man pour his heart out over the phone. Thinks how desperate he must be to call a college professor to check up on his baby sister. Must’ve had to scour through poncey academic profiles, scroll past honours and awards and scholarships rendered absolutely fucking meaningless in the shadow of death and grief. Jesus fuck. His chest hurts.

Inappropriate images melt swiftly away. Mind full of other things now. The way she glanced at him over her shoulder as she stood by the sink. Seeking him out. Looking for assurance. Comfort. Something to tell her that she was okay. _Jesus_. How she gazed up at him as he swept the sweater off over her head. All heady. Hazy. Like she couldn’t wait to get lost. Her eyes just after. Her blue, blue eyes. Full of ghosts that they’d kept at bay together for a little while. Jesus _fuck_.

Fingers turning the silver earring over and over atop his desk as he finally finds the right words. Brushes off the thanks proffered by Mr Stark as they click shut their call. Sets the phone back in its cradle. Closes his palm around the earring. Fiddles with it as he looks back at his laptop. Opens the unread email emblazoned red as the hair he can’t stop thinking about.

_Need to see you_…

_Please, Professor Snow_.

Two lines. Nothing special. But it’s from _her_. Chest not just hurting now. Crushed. Breath billowed up from his lungs. Fingers hovering over the keys as he thinks up a reply. Frantically typing it out as a soft knock sounds at the door. Jesus _fuck_, if it’s some first-year braved the commute to campus to complain about a fucking _essay_, he will rip the paper up before their very eyes and burn the torn up little bits down to fucking _ash_.

Ignores it. Hopes they’ll go away. But they’re persistent. Knock sounds again, then the door slips slowly open. He looks up over his glasses, fire in his eyes, smoking down his throat, blackening his tongue. Ready to shout. Swear. Scare the living daylights out of whichever first-year student is standing there with an essay gripped in trembling hands.

But it’s not a first-year student. Not a colleague begging for a favour. Not the janitor come to change up the bin-bags. No. None of them. It’s her. _Her_. Name trembling on his tongue. Surprises him which one he chooses to sound out.

“_Sansa_.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully things make a little more sense now. Angsty achy heart writing it; but finally a clear path for healing to (hopefully) make its way down on through. I dearly hope you love the soft, sexy sweetness <strike>(and spanking)</strike> coming up in the next chapter or two. As ever, your thoughts, feelings, likes, dislikes, _wtfs_, **wow hold-ups** — they all mean the world. ❤️


	8. Quiet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > Rising, rising, _rising_… 🔥

Her name in his mouth. Any other time it’d make her wild. Turn her loose. Cut her free. But it’s not what she needs right now. No softness. No sweet words. No _Sansas_. Needs something else tonight. Isn’t quite sure what. But she knows she’ll find it here. With him. Knows it as soon as she sees the way he’s looking at her.

Questioned it the whole way here. Snow stinging her cheeks. Words of her email whirling round her brain as she ducked her face into her jacket-collar. Hand wrapped round the phone in her pocket, willing it to buzz. Willing him to read it. Reply. Hovered at the black-iron gates. Gazed at the snow-topped statues flanking the entrance to campus. Phone didn’t buzz. But she’d made up her mind by then, anyway.

Just as made up now. He’s staring at her like she’s some holy relic come to life. Statue of a saint risen up from a church-side dais. Cold as stone, that’s true. Doesn’t stop her stripping off her jacket, though. Stepping from her boots. Pulling the belt-buckle back as she slides the leather free of the first loop of her jeans. Hand lifted to her head. Fingers sinking into the saturated wool cloaking her hair.

“You wore a hat.”

Glances up to find him gazing at her. “It’s snowing.”

“I — I was worried you’d be cold.” 

Pulls the hat off her hair. Lets it drop to the carpet. Frowns at the wonder in his eyes as he stares at the snow-speckled wool pooling on the office floor. Sweater over her head. Brief moment of darkness. Dim lamp-light as the fabric finally lifts free. Blinks. His eyes are level with her own now. Dark as smoke. Just as hot. Just as dangerous. _Please_. All she wants is to suck it up. Fill her lungs with it. Fade away. _Please, please, please_.

Lips part. Shiver starts, lifts the frozen valleys of her veins against her skin. Tilts her head. Holds out her hand. Waits for him to take it.

*

Fixated. So fixated by a fucking _hat_ that he barely notices the fingers fluttering in his direction. Gazes at her dumbly. Eyes roving over her face. Dipping down to her throat. Long, clean line of her collarbone. Breasts rolling with her breath. Bare. Luminous in the dim glow of his desk-lamp. Nipples pebbled; same shade as the lip she keeps nipping at with her teeth. Jeans half-unbuttoned. And she’s perfect. So fucking _perfect_ that — Jesus _fuck_. 

Hard instantly. So hard it hurts. Heart hammering in his chest. Knot in his belly unravelling and retying itself a little tighter. Mind a mess. A fucking _mess_. Because — _because_ her eyes are clear. Free of ghosts and so, so blue. Doesn’t want to drag back that haunting look she got last night. Doesn’t want to make her remember. Hurt. But her brother’s words are still hot in his ear. And — and it’s not _right_ for them to keep on as if he doesn’t know.

Wants to laugh at that. Blurring this weird world they’ve made with concepts that don’t quite fit in it: right, wrong, morals, scruples, ethics. Whole _thing_ is wrong. Teacher. Student. Professor. TA. So wrong it _is_ laughable to try and force some right in it. But he’ll try. Wrong, weird — whatever this world they inhabit together may be, he’ll try to make at least one thing in it right. 

“The fuck are you waiting for?”

Her voice is different. Husky. Hard. Hits him square in his chest. Skin on fire. Waves of heat rocking him to the soles of his feet. Jesus _fuck_, she’s something to see. Fucking goddess in the half-light of the office. Scarlet strands loosening from her braid, framing her face. Moon-pale body some spectre cutting up the dark. Staring at him. _Scorching_ him. Fire in her eyes threatening to turn them both to smoke and ash and fucking soot.

“I got a phone call. Just now.” How the fuck he’s getting his words out in the face of _that_ he will never know. “From your brother. He told me… told me about your — ”

“Quiet.” 

Single word. Chimes out like a gunshot. Silencer fitted to the muzzle. Slicing up the air with the smallest sound. _Feels_ it. Feels it in his chest. Ripples through his belly. Fire singeing up his spine. Down it. Tingling at his nape, his cock. Jesus _fuck_. Her eyes on his as she makes her way round the desk. No ghosts. No grief. Just fire. Enough fire to set them both ablaze. Fingertips on his shoulders and she’s hooking her leg over him. Sliding down onto his lap. Hiss of air from between his teeth — hers, too — as they connect. Rub together. Rasp. Roll. Slow. _Achingly_ slow. Opens his mouth to speak. 

“Don’t _talk_.” Fingers digging at his chin, turning his face up to fit against hers. The groan he makes is something inhuman as she claws a kiss to his lips. “Don’t try to understand. Just — just tell me I’m good.” Rolls his lip between her teeth. Pulls back with a furrow in her brow. Fire softening in her eyes. “Tell me I’m a good girl.”

“You are,” he breathes. “You’re _my_ good girl.”

*

That’s it. That is fucking _it_. What she needed to hear. What she’s been burning up to hear. Ever since he pulled the sweater from her arms in that lecture-hall. Ever since she cursed his name out on her freezing fire-escape. Ever since she bared her soul to him in that stupid bougie little café. Didn’t know it then. _Couldn’t_ know it then. But she knows it now.

Not just a good girl. _His_ good girl. Fuck. Shit. _Fuck_.

Rolls her hips against him. Revels in the low-pitched growl that garbles up his throat. Fingers in his hair. Wrenching on the ink-dark curls till his head tips back. Snatching up the next sound he makes with a kiss that sets her head spinning. Shifts her hips again. Catches the darkness smoking at the very edges of his eyes. Smiles slowly as his palms skate down her bare sides. Come to rest on her hips. Nip at the soft swell of them.

“Say it again.”

Powerless as she rolls and shifts and _dips_. “Good girl. Mm, you’re a good _girl_.”

“But I’ve been bad.” Brushes her brow against his. Lowers her lips to skitter across his cheekbone. “I’ve been _so_ bad, Jon.” Hiss of breath between his teeth as she says his name. “For weeks. For months.” Rocks back, cants her hips up as she arches her spine. Flexes her fingers into his shoulders. He watches her. Looks drunk. “Been getting away with it, too. Nobody to punish me… till now.”

Little bit of light behind the smoke in his eyes. “Sansa — ”

“Shh.” Smooths the dark hair back from his brow. Loves the care shining in his gaze. The worry that she’s broken right now, vulnerable, doesn’t really mean what she’s saying. Leans forward. Brushes her lips to his in a kiss soft as the look he’s got fixed on her. Breathes his breath. His eyes clear then. “You can be sweet to me after, okay?”

Fingertips trailing her jaw. “Okay.”

“Thank you.”

Relief. Fucking _relief_. Sags against him. Head snaps up as his fingers tighten. Travel from her jaw to her throat. Circles it loosely in his palm. Then squeezes gently. She moans. Hips stuttering across his lap, arms rising to wrap round his neck. This is it. This is fucking _it_. Gives a little whimper as he squeezes again, lifts an airy brow at her. 

“Thank you what?”

Yes. Yes, yes, _fuck yes_.

“Thank you, Professor Snow.”

Doesn’t nod at her. Doesn’t acknowledge her good manners. Just looks her in the eye. Dark smoke. Hot. Dangerous. Wants it. Wants to suck it up so badly she whines. _Please_. He smiles then. Slowly. Tilts her chin up with his thumb. Sinks his mouth to her throat. Nip of teeth, suck of skin. _Please, please, please_. Leaves another bruise to turn bright as a ruby just beneath her jaw. Watch each other. Magpie in the snare of his arms, his lips. No place she’d rather be.

*

Just now. Just _now_ is when he realises that he’s never been in control. She was. _Is_. But he’ll play whatever part she needs him to play. Tonight. Tomorrow. Right now. Always. Will do whatever it takes to keep her satisfied. Make her _believe_ in the part she wants him to play. Act indifferent. Lift of his brow, quirk of his lip; even when his heart is beating out like a marching boot against his ribs, softness threatening to cloud up the very edges of his eyes. Won’t let it show. Will be what she needs him to be.

Not exactly difficult right now. Because it’s what he wants — desperately _needs_ — as well. Her bent back over the desk, feet planted on either arm of his plush leather chair. Braid a streak of fire pooling against the desk at the base of her spine. Jeans hanging off one ankle. Panties, too. Thighs tensing against his head as he sinks his mouth between them. Jesus _fuck_. Hates the sugary analogy; but she tastes like heaven. Like actual, fucking _heaven_. 

Works her well. Slow and soft and sloppy till she’s grabbing at his hair. Rocking up her hips. Making the strangest, sweetest sounds. Gets her right to the edge. Wide, flat tongue; tight, quick twist. Palm pushed into her belly to keep her still. Inclination is to keep going till she comes. Hard. Kiss and suck till he’s blue in the face and she’s a boneless mess. But she laid her cards out _very_ clearly. Bad girl — and bad girls require a little punishment.

So he pulls back. Wipes the palm of his hand across his mouth. Trails the same fingers down between her thighs. Slick, hot folds parting as he circles a thumb round her clit. Soft little circles. Just enough pressure to make her buck her hips, seek him out. Leans down swiftly. Lands a bite to her hipbone. Draws away as she wails. 

“Quiet.”

“But — ”

“Good girls don’t answer back. Bad girls do. Is _that_ what you are, Miss Stark?”

Waits for her to answer. But she’s a quick learner. Bites her lip. Shakes her head instead. He rewards her with a kiss over the crescent-mark left by his teeth on her hipbone. She twists, tries to angle his face back where she wants it. He allows it. For half a breath. Lips ghosting where his thumb is still circling. Feels her sag back onto the desk. Body lax in relief to have got the contact it’s desperate for. Seizes up almost as soon as he pulls away.

Her wail becomes a whimper. _Please_. He lets out a smoky, breathless chuckle. _Please, please, please_. Scrapes his teeth down the slant of her hipbone. Trails his tongue over to the other one. Flint covered in velvet. Thumb still circling. Quiet now, breath hitching in her throat. Her head rolling forward as he lays a cheek to the soft skin of her thigh, glances up at her. Smiling. _Smirking_.

“Hurts right now, doesn’t it?” Breathes it against her skin as their eyes meet. Hers damp, desperate. She nods, teeth nipping at her lip. “But you’ll always remember this moment. This feeling. Body on fire. So close to getting what it wants. Every muscle tense. So wet. Getting wetter with every word I’m saying.” Moans to confirm it; tips her head back, breasts rolling with her quickened breath. His smirk softens to a smile. “Mm, you _will_ remember this, Miss Stark… maybe one day we’ll even relive it.”

Sagged back onto her elbows. Collapses onto her back as he shadows up her body. Stands up between her legs. Leans down over her. Soft sweater flush to her bare skin. Lips trailing the bone-notches of her ribs. Slipping up over the rise of her breast. She moans softly as his mouth closes on her nipple. Rolls it with his tongue. Circles to the other. Leaves them both slick, wet as the folds he’s teasing with finger and thumb. She whimpers as he comes level with her face. Meets her eyes. Heady. Hazy. Like his own. Smiles at her. Slowly.

“You’re being _such_ a good girl, Miss Stark.” Dips to her jaw, feathers kisses along its ivory-edge. “So very, _very_ good.” Sucks at her pulse-point as tremors wrack her entire body. “But you _did_ tell me you’d been bad. That you’d gotten away with it. That nobody had punished you.” Nose in her hair now; whiskey-warm whisper at her ear. “Mm, I think it’s time we rectified that… don’t you?”

Softer whimper this time. Not a plea. More like a fucking _prayer_.

*

Hazily wondering if heaven is real. Because _look_ at him. Like a god in the half-light of the lamp on the desk. Carved of marble, obsidian, silver when the moonlight catches him just _so_. Scene from a mural. Oil painting. Ceiling of the Sistine fucking Chapel. Would be on her knees in a heartbeat. Melting the snow off his winter boots with her breath.

Catches up with her own thoughts. Groans at them. Daydreaming about kissing her professor’s literal shoes. What’s next? Washing his feet? Treating him to a Last Supper? Jesus _fuck_. Needs to get a grip. Needs to get a grip _fast_. But not now. Mm, not yet. She’ll get a grip later. Tomorrow. Some distant, misty day in the future. Right now, she’ll keep on gazing up at him like he’s some god-like wonder come to walk the earth. Keep on letting his name roll like a silent prayer round her tongue.

“I asked you a question, Miss Stark.”

Frowns up at him. “Hmm?”

“Have you listened to a single word I’ve said?” His _voice_. Velvet smoke. Well-aged whiskey splashing fire down her throat. “Bad girl.” Fingers pulling away, landing a sharp tap against her inner thigh. She gasps. “Turn over.” Struck dumb; flares of sweet heat flooding up through her body. “_Now_, Miss Stark.”

Hands on her hips and he’s spun her onto her front before she can blink. Bites back her eager little moan. Stretches her belly across the desk. Fingertips scrabbling to find the far edge as he runs a hand across her arse. Slips it down to the crease of her thigh, then back up again. Over and over. Till she’s shivering. Nipping her lip. Stretching her spine out. Tiniest shimmy of her hips. Flexes his fingers full of the soft, plump flesh. Fox whining at the window, owl in the trees; realises it’s _her_ making the sound.

“Quiet.”

But she can’t stop. Can’t be quiet. Not with the feel of him — the _threat_ of him — hanging over her like hot smoke from a fire. Hands. Fingers. Gentle touches hinting at all the strength he’s holding back. _Fuck_, she wants him to unleash it. Make a mark to match the ruby-coloured bruises darkening her throat. Moans again. 

“_Quiet_, Miss Stark — or I will have to spank you.” Nip of his nails to her skin and she’s surging her backside into his hand. So wet her thighs come away damp as she parts them. Breathes something like his name. “Fine. Have it your way.” One hand between her shoulder-blades, pressing her down onto the desk. “One stroke for every sound you’ve made. Ten so far. I’ve counted.”

Palm lifts from its perch on soft, plump flesh. Hears it heighten, slice through the air like a bullet. Everything freezes. Heart shudders in her chest. Breath hitches halfway up her throat. Every nerve singing. Every knot of muscle. Beat of blood. _Please_. Mind perfectly blank. And it’s — it’s fucking _heavenly_. Belly contracts as she hears his hand begin to descend. _Please, please, please_. Hurtle through the air it’s already sliced to pieces. Gather speed. Everything clenched. Taut. Trembling. _Please_ — 

Lands. Hard.

She comes. Even harder.

Blackness. Stars. Grey and white and blue bursting behind her eyes. Nothing lucid in her brain, save one thought: heaven is real. _Heaven is fucking real_.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daaaamn, I **felt** that. But, ho-ho we still rising. We haven’t _stopped_ rising. Up, up and away. Aren’t the clouds pretty? View’s real nice from up here on high. Let’s stay here a while. Together. Getting lost. Fading away. Fucking _Jesus-Christ-and-all-the-angels_, our very own little bit of bliss... but what's that? More of the same next chapter? Sexiness? Sweetness, too? Yessir. Plenty of that coming up. ❤️


	9. Paper Boat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > Rolling. Riding. Realisations. Here we _gooooo_… 👄💥

Falters after the first stroke. Because the way she comes. Jesus. Makes him so desperate to be inside her. _Achingly_ desperate. Her belly convulsing against the edge of the desk. Her feet kicking out straight. Long, lean lines of her calves straining taut. Thighs clenching hard on the hand he slips between them. Fingers come away sticky. Pushes one inside her. Two. Ripples round him like heavy water. Jesus _fuck_.

“You like that?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“You want more?”

“More. _Please_. More.”

Puts some strength behind the second smack. Third. Fourth. Fifth. Softens the sixth. Makes her whine. Tension wind down from her body. Seventh lands hard as the second. Clamps down around his fingers. Shoots forward on the desk. Tosses back her head. Fire-streak of plaited hair whipping between her shoulder-blades. Sound she’s making comes out garbled as the ninth stroke chases up the echoes of the eighth. Quick. Sharp. Because he’s hungry now. Fucking _hungry_.

“Last one, Miss Stark.” Flexes his fingers on the sunset-pink skin. “Ready for it?”

“Ready,” breathes it. “_So_ ready, Professor Snow.” 

Pulls his fingers free at the same time as he lands the final smack. Denies her something to clench onto. Something to clamp down on as she chases a high he’s not ready to give her _just_ yet. Fades from her as he smooths a palm back and forth, soothing some of the sting from her skin. Moan she makes is frustrated. _Furious_. He smiles. Slowly. Keeps stroking softly till the tingles of near-release have flooded from her blood. Thumps her brow against the desk, breath rattling in her throat.

“Patience, Miss Stark.” Puts some gravel in his voice; smile widening to see the shiver dancing down her spine. “Just breathe.” Feathers his fingers up toward her nape, wraps the rope of her hair round his fist. “Now tell me, how did that feel?”

Turns her cheek to the desk. “Good. So _good_.”

“Did it make you forget?”

Nods, eyes half-closed. “Yes.”

“What did it make you forget?”

Wistful little smile perking the corner of her mouth. “Everything.”

“Even your manners?”

Fire blazing as he jags on her hair. “Thank you, Professor Snow.”

“Good girl.”

Hurts his heart a little, the way that smile sweetens on her lips. Some absurd pang of pride deepening the pit of his belly. Tying knots in his chest. Makes him soften. Lax his grip in her hair. Swoop down to land a kiss between her shoulder-blades. _Good girl_. Skate whispers against her skin. _My good girl_. Chase the echoes up to her throat. Sink his tongue the line of her jaw. She turns her head. Lips meet. Jesus fuck. Heart hurts a little more as her mouth opens for his kiss.

*

No wine, whiskey, nicotine. Nothing in her system. Only him. Spiking in her veins. Flooding her brain till it blurs. Warm syrup smoothing every single sharp edge. Memories. Things that hurt. Hailstones. Heartache. _Home_. Can’t feel any of it. Like clouds in a summer sky. Drifting by, but casting no shadows. Ripples on a lake. Disappearing before their presence is fully known. Paper boat coasting along the barest trace of a slow current. Bliss. That’s what it is. Utter _bliss_.

Feels their kiss as if it’s between her legs. Pulse of it. Deep, sweet pull of it. Lips shaping sounds that shiver across her skin. _Good girl_. Blooms in her chest. _My good girl_. Explodes behind her eyes. Roman candle. Catherine wheel. Firecrackers bursting in her brain. Fingers rising to wrap into his ink-dark curls. Using her body to push him back as she lifts up off the desk. Back flush to his chest. His arm wrapped round her waist.

Stand like that for a moment. Completely still. Only their mouths moving in a kiss that seems to lift all the pressure from her chest. Fingers escaping his curls to rasp across his nape. He moans. He _moans_ — and it’s the smokiest, sultriest, fucking _sexiest_ sound she’s ever heard. Come alive then. Both of them. Turns in his arms. Sweater ripped off over his head. Belt-buckle jingling as his jeans hike round his knees. Fingers flailing for grip at the air as she pushes him sharply back by the shoulders. Bird-tilt of her head as he tumbles into his chair. Looks up at her, breathing hard.

Grips for her hips as she sinks down onto his lap. He rolls them back and forth. Feels him hard between her thighs. Bites her lip, closes her eyes. Tries to find a lower, more tolerable hue. Because things are moving a little slower now. Some of the tension flooded from her — from _him_ — with the relief of her first climax. Still hungry. _Achingly_ hungry. But nothing in the world could make her rush this. Nothing. 

Twines her fingers into the curls at his nape. Other hand slipping down his chest. Pulls his head back so their eyes meet as her fingers nip at the waistband of his boxers. His eyes are huge. Round. Dark. Like staring straight into his soul. Fingers at his nape gently tugging his hair as her other hand ghosts over his cock. Watches him as she wraps round it softly. Runs it up toward his belly. Gently. Skates a thumb over the head — and he collapses. _Collapses_. Brow sinking against her throat. Eyes tight shut as he moans. Mouth on her collarbone. Pulls him back by the hair. Presses her lips against his own. 

“You okay?”

Doesn’t say anything. Watches her. Gazes at her. Nods. Bottom lip sticking to her own as he pulls back from the kiss. Fingertips skating her brow, pushing scarlet strands behind her ears. Thumbs whispering the line of her jaw. She mirrors his movements. Feels him grow harder, hotter. Tilts her head as she rasps her thumb over him again.

“This okay?”

One hand skating down her spine now. Settling at the small of her back. Fingers spreading out as he pushes her closer. Hips bucking up into hers with the tiniest movement. Tongue threading out to wet his bottom lip. Eyes nearly black. Pupils blown-wide. Fingertips like arrowheads digging into her back as he finds his voice. Finally.

“I need to be inside you.” Shaky, the way he says it. “_Please_.”

Doesn’t say anything. Watches him. Gazes at him. Nods.

*

Bit of fun, that’s all this was meant to be. Her. Him. All of it. Word-games. Battle of wills. Bit of heat to warm them both over winter. Threat of discovery. Thrill of getting caught. Rough sex. Hard orgasms. Each of them going their separate ways afterwards. No strings attached. Uncomplicated. Distance. Boundaries. _Control_. But he played with fire. Blazed. Burst all over him. Burned up all his careful control, his cool looks, casual indifference. Everything he’d cultivated himself as, everything he _thought_ he wanted to be.

Doesn’t want it. Not now. Not ever again. All he wants — all he _needs_ — is her. Not just her body. Her eyes. Wide and warm and so, so blue. Her scent. Woodsmoke and faint tobacco and something sweeter. Her hair. Washed silver by the moonlight: a hundred shades of ice and fire framing her face. Her heart. Wedged tight to his as they press together. Move together. Moan together. 

Sunk in deep. Her hips rocking slowly. So slowly it makes his throat ache. Little furrow in her brow. Lips parted. Fixated by the pink of her tongue, the pearl of her teeth. Back arching as he runs his palm up and down it. Settles it at the base of her spine again. Follows the rhythm she sets. Makes no move to quicken her. Rock her faster. Harder. Lets her move him how she will. Even though this pace is killing him. Slow torture. But Jesus is it _sweet_. 

“Hurts right now, doesn’t it?” Whispers it into his beard as she skates her lips toward his own. Meets his eyes as he moans. “But you’ll always remember this moment. This feeling. Body on fire. So close to getting what it wants. Every muscle tense. So hard. Getting harder with every word I’m saying.” Softer than when he said them. Making him wild. Feels her smile against his lips; groans to taste it. “Mm, you _will_ remember this, Professor Snow… and maybe one day we’ll relive it.”

Breathless, the chuckle they both make. Then he’s surging forward to swallow the sound from her lips. Eyes slipping closed for a second, brows pulling together as he kisses her. Draws back. Rests his forehead to her own.

“You’re very bad.” Nips at his lip, drowns in her eyes. “Do you know that?”

Sun-warmed honey, the slow spread of her smile. “Sometimes.” Rolls his bottom lip free of his teeth with her thumb. “Most times I’m good.” Glancing kiss, lips sticking together as she slowly draws back. “_So_. Good.”

“Mm, you are a good girl.”

Nose bumping against his own. “_Your_ good girl… is that what you want?”

“Yes.” Surprises himself with the speed of his answer. Drinks the ocean of her eyes. Leans forward to taste the honey of her smile. “I want that very much.”

*

Lets his hands chase her hips a little now. Rough her rhythm up just a fraction. Enough to make a flush start in his cheeks. Smiles to see it. Prettiest, most exclusive, most fucking expensive blush-shade you’d find in Sephora. Doesn’t fill her with hate now, though. Fills her with warmth. So much warmth her heart could burst. Belly no longer a river overflowing its banks. Hot spring. Brought to the boil. Breath of breeze to keep it simmering softly.

One hand lifts from her hip. Circles her nape. Thumb behind her ear as he pulls her forward. Chases a kiss to her lips as he bears her down a little harder. Hips rising up to meet the roll of her own. Patchwork. Piecemeal. Sometimes they surge together. Sometimes she’s a second too late to meet his thrust. Doesn’t matter. It’s perfect. Fucking _perfectly_ imperfect. She’s close. So _close_.

Tips her head back. Offers up her throat. He sinks his mouth to it almost instantly. Kisses where he’s bitten. Smooths over the ruby-coloured bruises. Gentle, glancing lips. She moans. Eyes roll open. Land on the window. Ink-dark sky through the slats of the blind. Frost flowers sparking up the glass as the snow continues to fall. Softly. So _softly_ she could weep. Moonlight turning her throat to silver. Feels his lips bump softly over the chain hanging round her neck. Takes a deep, shuddering breath. Single salt-streak tear dipping down her cheek. Bites her lip to stem the flow. But another slips out now. Third. Fourth. Fifth. Soft lips catching up the sixth. Warble in her throat.

“Stop.” Life-ring in a rising tide. Circles her. Drags her back to shore as she grips it with both hands. “Stop fighting it. It’s okay.” Meets his eyes through the blur of her tears. So soft they make her heart ache. “It’s _okay_. I’ve got you now, Sansa. I’ve got you.” Sob-moan-whimper; swallowed up by his kiss. “That’s it… that’s it, Sansa.”

Can’t breathe. Welling up inside her. So much warmth. Softness. “Jon. _Jon_ — ”

“Hey, hey — look at me.” Fingers catching at her chin. “_Look_ at me.” Hint of strength behind the softness of his voice. Eyes hook onto him immediately. Knows they’ve got a desperate edge to them; doesn’t care. Needs this. Needs _him_. “I’ve got you. Okay? I have _got_ you, Sansa Stark.” Guides her by the chin till their lips are touching. “Just breathe. Breathe — and give yourself over to me.” Flush of fire deep between her hipbones and she’s surging up against him, fingers clutching his face. “That’s it… good girl. _Good_ girl.”

Flush. Pulse. Endless, ebbing heat. Eyes shut tight now as she grinds up against him, chasing the high, coasting it through till her thighs are trembling, all the strength seeping from her blood, her bones, her entire body. He catches her up. Arms winding round her waist as he pulls her flush against him and groans into the crook of her neck. Feels him. _Feels_ him deep inside her. Heat. Hardness. _Healing_ — the sound they make together now. Rises and rises and _rises_ till they lose their breath and fold around each other. 

Cheek laid to his shoulder. Salt-streaks of her tears marking his skin. Glances up to find him gazing down at her with dark, damp eyes. Could swear he’s crying, too.

*

Doesn’t want to pull out of her. Doesn’t want to be outside of her warmth. Doesn’t want to be _free_ of her. Not now. Not yet. Not ever. Thirty-odd years thinking he knew his body’s rhythms. Its wants. Its needs. Its desires. Knew nothing. Not a damn thing. But this — _this_ he knows. Doesn’t know how or why. Just _knows_.

Her fingertips on the back of his neck. Tracing circles. Shapes soft as the lips pressed to his shoulder. Knows she saw the tears dampening his eyes. Doesn’t care. Saw his soul right there for half a breath; but he saw hers, too. Runs his fingers down the long scarlet rope of her plait. She lifts her face from his shoulder at the gentle contact. Meets his eyes. Smiles. Sweet and slow and sunny. 

“It’s amazing,” she whispers. “How readable your face is right now. Window straight into what you’re thinking… what you’re _feeling_.”

Can’t help but roll his eyes at that, give a soft little laugh. “Mm, what _am_ I feeling, Miss Stark?”

“Same as me.”

Tilts his head to the side, smiling. “What are _you_ feeling?”

“Happy. Warm. And — ”

Raises a brow as her belly gurgles. “_Hungry_, Miss Stark?”

“Starving, Professor Snow.” 

Looks at the clock. “Shall we get breakfast?”

“It’s not even daylight.” 

Her indignant tone makes him smile. Widely. Memories of where this all started. Him. Her. All of it. “No law against eating pancakes in the dark that I’m aware of.” Her eyes. Fire in them shining softly. “What do you say, Miss Stark? Shall we go get breakfast at midnight?”

Doesn’t say anything. Just laughs. Purest, happiest sound. Heart doesn’t hurt anymore. Sits high in his chest. Paper boat on a river. Buoyed by the brightness of her eyes. Carried on the current of her laughter. Help each other dress. Jeans. Sweaters. Layer upon layer till she’s tucking the scarf round his neck. Walk side-by-side out into the snow. Not touching. Don’t need to. Shape of her still warm in his hands. Sound of her still white-hot in his heart.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wasn’t going to post till Monday but here we are. 🤷 Wham-bam thank you ma’am. I hope you heard the same choral heavenly music rolling round your head reading this as I felt writing it. HALLELUJAH. Bit sugary, I _know_. But guys — oh God _guys_ I just hope you didn’t mind it **too** much… ❤️


	10. 01:11am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > And I said “What about Breakfast at… _Dottie’s_?” 🥞

Breakfast at midnight. 01:11am, more accurately. Couldn’t decide where to go. Turned his nose up at several diners. Eventually let her drag him a little way downtown. Far cry from the places he’s chosen up till now. Bougie little café. Bar with scattered star-lights stretched above its garden. Chic, cosy corners of lithe old brownstones. Safely tucked down side-streets. Far away from the madding crowd.

_Dottie’s_ is a little out of his comfort zone. She can tell. Makes her smile though, seeing him a bit unsure. Dark eyes resting on hers for guidance. Pushes a laminated menu across the tabletop. He catches it with his fingertips. Spins it round with the smallest hint of a smirk quirking up his lips. Sore. Sated. Yet the merest hint of _that_ smile sends ice-prickles shivering across her skin.

Turns away from him. Just to catch her breath. Fights to control the hammer-beat of her heart. Gazes out the window next to their poky little booth. City still swept in snow; black-knife trees and the glow of streetlamps in the white-edged gloom. Traces a snowflake as it winds down the glass. Follows its trail, frowning. Strange lightness in her chest. Her head. Takes her a moment to work out what it is.

01:11am. Normally by now she’d be in a whirlwind. Things on her mind. Always at this time of night. Something about the air; makes everything sharpen with a cold clarity. Things that she fights to keep at bay all day somehow come creeping back. Blurring at the edges of her brain. Thoughts. Memories. Painful things she tries so hard to keep buried. Hailstones. Heartache. _Home_ — but they’re not there. Not tonight. 01:11am and her head is _clear_. Heart warm. Heady semi-sense of healing settling deep between her ribs.

“Fuck. Shit. _Fuck_.”

“Menu doesn’t look _that_ bad, Miss Stark.”

“No. It’s — it looks good. So _good_.”

“You okay?”

Looks back round to find he’s set the menu down on the tabletop. Fingers resting on its edges. Head tilted a little to one side as he gazes at her. Knowing, the way they watch each other. Intimate. Like it’s just the two of them in a diner that’s defying the stillness of the snowy night with its hustle and bustle. Her fingers creep across the tabletop. Slowly. Touch the back of his hand. They smile at each other.

“I’m good,” she murmurs. “I’m so _good_.”

Doesn’t say anything. Just nods as he smiles. Looks back down at his menu. Frowns, makes a big show of reading the same breakfast item twice – even as his smile grows a little broader. She soon feels why. Makes a soft exhale. His fingers. Twined between her own. Thumb rasping across her knuckles. Holding her soft, steady, _safe_. Keeping the whirlwind far, far away — at least for the moment.

*

Must’ve read this menu half a dozen times. Hasn’t taken in a single fucking item on it. Too lost in the feel of her hand in his. Isn’t even hungry anymore. Not for food anyway. Not for sex either. Just wants her close. _Closer_. Wants more than their hands to be touching. Thigh. Knee. Point of her elbow jogging against him as she lifts her coffee-cup. Ridiculous. He is being _ridiculous_. Like a schoolboy. Thirteen-year-old with his first crush. Mm, but it feels good. So _good_.

“Have you decided yet?”

“Patience, Miss Stark.”

She orders for both of them in the end. He’s still fussing with the menu. Running his eyes back and forth across it as the waitress sashays over. Primrose-patterned skirt, plucked brows risen to the heavens as he dithers. Pen tap-tap-tapping against an order-pad. Clears his throat. Finally.

“Perhaps a poached — ”

“He’ll have pancakes, too. Extra syrup.”

Looks across to her as she cuts through him. Flush still blooming in her cheeks from the cold air without. Scarlet hair framing her face in fire. White teeth glinting in a smile as she and the waitress exchange a not-so-subtle look. His mouth goes a bit dry. She’s so — so self-assured here. So comfortable. _Commanding_. Completely at ease as she’d be in a classroom, lecture-hall, seminar space earnestly discussing the contemporary staging of centuries-old plays. Jesus. Little shiver across his skin. Heart thudding in his chest. Jesus _fuck_, how is it he’s suddenly ravenous?

Watching him. Mischief in her eyes. “Not happy with my choice?”

“Sugar,” he manages to grit out. “So much sugar.”

Honey-slow smile, head tilted to one side. “You _did_ say you’d be sweet to me after.”

“That’s true — and I would never swear an oath I can’t uphold.”

Frames it as a joke. Flourish of his hand as he says it. Silly little smirk painted on his lips. But their eyes are dead centre. Watching each other with a greater weight than his flippant tone gives credit to. Shocks him to his core, the white-hot bolt that hits him then. Sincerity. Gravity. So much _feeling_. Knows in that instant he’ll never make a promise to her that he can’t keep. Makes him a little breathless to realise it. Reads it in his eyes. Smiles at him so softly. As if she sees. As if she _knows_.

“I believe that.” Fiddles with the handle of her coffee-cup, nips her lip as if she’s deciding whether to continue. He waits. Patiently. “I remember a lecture you gave last semester. Oath-swearing in Othello. Something like that.” Flash of black-painted nails as she makes a gesture. “I’ll always remember your final slide. Quite the mic-drop.”

He taps his chin, trying to remember. “Oath-swearing in Othello…”

“You were talking about the power of a promise,” she says softly. “The weight of the words that make them up. You said — you _said_ that when enough people make false promises, words stop meaning anything.” Dampness at the very edges of her eyes; his, too. “And once words mean nothing, there are no more answers, only better and better lies.” Draws herself up a little in her chair. “I remember what you said… _how_ you said it. Like it was the most important thing in the world.” Her smile gets even softer. “So… _so_ I believe you, Jon. Oaths and promises. I don’t think you’d ever break one.”

Tiniest shake of his head. “Never knowingly.” Wave of heat cresting in his chest. “Can that ever be good enough?”

“It’s good enough for me.”

Weight lifts from his shoulders — then hits him square in the chest. Because suddenly he realises the enormity of his feeling for her. What he’d do for her. Give her his coat in the cold. Batter a man half to death if they chanced to look at her funny. Lose his job, his comfortable life. Let her go if that’s what she wanted, _needed_. Weirdly intense, the flare of heat in his heart at _that_ thought. Because he doesn’t want to let her go. Jesus. Not now. Not yet. Not —

Fingers brushing his. Interlocking. Dragging him back to shore as he wades through a wide, black sea of imagined despair. Her eyes on his. Warm and so, so blue. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to. Can read the truth in her gaze, see it burning bright. She isn’t going anywhere. He can _breathe_ again; strange how — in the moment before she touched him — he’d forgotten he could do that.

*

He looks at his plate in faint disgust when the waitress sets it down on the tabletop. Flicks his eyes up to send the same sentiment across to the person who ordered it. She quirks a brow at him pointedly. Nods her head toward his plate as she lifts the fork to her lips. He rolls his eyes. Pours syrup. Carves up the mountain. Takes a tentative bite. Chews. Swallows. Wants to make a smart-ass remark, she can tell — but then his eyes suddenly clear and all he can seem to focus on is chopping up batter left, right and centre.

“So much for _so much sugar_,” she murmurs.

Rolls his eyes again. Gives a half-shrug of his shoulders, lips shaping as if he’s about to say something. Shrugs again. Too fixated on his plate. Magpie, the way he looks at them. As if the buttermilk pancakes are suddenly silver-plated. She watches him eat as she cuts up her own. Feels an absurd rush of warmth in her belly. Pancakes. Promises. When did his participation in either suddenly start to mean so much to her? God knows. 

Still puzzling it out when her phone vibrates in her pocket. Goes to mute it. Reflexively. So used to ignoring everything — every_one_. But this time she stops herself. Pancakes. Promises. Weight of words. Looks down at the screen. Photo emblazoned across it. Dark hair. Moody eyes. Little button nose. Taps it to her palm. Considers. Decides. 

“You mind if I take this?” Already half-risen out of her chair. “It’s my sister.”

Mumbles something through a mouthful of food. Covers his mouth with his hand and nods as he swallows dramatically. She smiles at him. Turns on her heel and slips out the warmth of the diner to the snow-swept street. Presses the green icon. Puts the phone to her ear. Breathes. Watches the exhale make smoke on the icy air.

“Arya?”

“Look who decided to finally answer their fucking phone.” Hum of breath against the speaker. Sarcastic. “It’s only been, what — nearly a fucking _year_?”

Bites her lip. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s been a busy — ”

“Cry me a fucking river, Sansa.” Shard of ice shattering against her ear; she shuts up instantly. “How hard is it to make a phone call? Reply to an email? Besides, I’ve _seen_ your Instagram. Just how _busy_ you’ve been.” Drinking. Smoking. Pupils blown-wide. _Pretending_. “And Robb’s talking out of his arse. Because I _won’t_ stay away from it — ”

Tries to interject. “I never told him to — ”

“ — _because_ you’re living a lie. That’s what you’re doing. And we’re all _sick_ of it. Me. Robb. Even Bran. And Mum…” Little crack in the ice-lake of sound now; glimpse at the abyss just below the surface. “… you’re breaking her heart, Sansa. Do you know that? Breaking it up into tiny little fucking _pieces_.”

Throat closing up. “Arya.”

“No. Someone needs to tell you. Stop treading round you like you’re made of fucking glass. Newsflash, we’re _all_ broken. All fucking shattered.” Sobbing now. Ice melted. “Just — can you just get your head out your arse and put it on a fucking plane home, _please_? I — I _miss_ you, Sans. I miss you so fucking much.”

Her own tears are turning to ice on her cheeks. “I miss you, too. Arya, I miss you so much. And — and I’m _sorry_. I am so fucking sorry for everything.” Great hiccupping breaths as she tries to control the shiver in her voice. “I should have been there for you. For Robb. For _Mum_. And — and I haven’t been. I’ve been selfish. So fucking selfish.” She presses a hand into her chest, fingers grappling for the silver chain nestled there. “Can — can you ever forgive me?”

“Of _course_ I forgive you, you fucking idiot.” Huff of breath, and she can _see_ the expression that accompanies it. “But only if you come home for Christmas. Deal?”

Her smile cracks the ice-trails on her cheeks. “Deal.”

“Do you remember what Dad used to say?”

Chain-links running like a river through her fingers. “Yes.”

“Good. Because — because we’re a _pack_, Sansa.” Harder tone, frowning through the tears. “You’re not alone. Not _ever_ alone. Not so long as you wear that necklace and remember that stupid eco-saying he’d spout like a vicar before every single fucking Stark family gathering.” They laugh together now. Softly. Quietly. “Daft bastard. But he was right. We’ll survive _together_, Sans — not apart. Okay?” 

Nods to herself, to the neon-lit snow. “Okay, Arya.” Turns her eyes up to the sky. Scattered snowflakes. Landing on her cheeks. Feels a smile start. “Love you.”

*

Different when she comes back in. Lighter on her feet. Tear-streaked cheeks, but the prettiest, purest smile turning up their corners. Didn’t take her jacket out with her so she’s shivering a little. Shoulders dusted with snowflakes. Melting into her scarlet hair. Sparkling on her lashes. It’s all he can do not to leap up and warm them away with kisses. Knife and fork clattering to the tabletop because — Jesus _fuck_ — the way she’s swaying over.

Slides back into her seat. Looks down at her empty plate. Back up at him, brow arched.

“Turns out there’s no such thing as too much sugar.”

She tries to hide her smile at his spread hands, mock-surrender hefting up his tone. Fails. It spills out like sunlight. Reaches her eyes. Turn them bright as an ocean at daybreak. But she knits a menacing frown on her brow. Points her knife at him.

“For future reference, if you touch my food again I will hurt you.” Leans back in her seat, taps the knife against the table-edge. “You’re lucky I’m in a giving mood tonight.”

Blinks innocently, as if he’s not imagining her as she was earlier. “Are you really?” Bent over his desk. Sunset-pink skin. Rubies on her throat. “Good phone call?”

“It was good. _So_ good.” Tilts her head to one side. “Want to get out of here? River’s pretty this time of night.”

Pats the flat, hard plain of his stomach. “I could do with a walk.”

“I’ll settle up with Dottie.”

Opens his mouth to protest. But she’s out of her seat and at the counter before he can say a word. Hanging over it, smiling as the waitress says something. Counts her change. Watches the curves of her as he wraps the scarf round his neck. Bites his lip as she dips a hand into her back-pocket. His fingers twitch. Picks up her coat from the back of the chair to quiet them. Holds it out for her as she spins back toward him.

Bundle out onto the street. Somewhere along the way to the river she takes his arm. Fingers flexing lightly on his sleeve. Seems only natural to duck his head, lift them to his lips, lay them back. Weird world they’re inhabiting — _creating_ — that much is true. But they’re in it together. Mm, and moments like this — moments like _this_, he’ll make the most of. Moments where they’re normal. Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. Couple having a run-of-the-mill type of night. Fellow late-night walkers passing them by with nary a glance. Feels a little giddy. Flush of warmth as she leans her head to his shoulder. Mm, yes. Moments like this he will _treasure_. 

River shimmers in the moonlight. Salt and smoke. Silent ships. Thinks of home, then. However briefly. Rock-cut steps. Sloping roofs. Ledges overlooking the sea. Lavender in the summertime. Closes his eyes. Another day. Another time. Not now. Not yet. Not with the moonlit river glittering before him. Not with her warm beside him. Finds her fingers gripping at his arm. Squeezes his palm down around them.

“Can’t believe this all started because I wanted a bit of extra credit.”

“Extra credit.” He rolls the words round his mouth like they are something exotic. “I think it started a long time before that.”

“Sounds twee,” she says softly. “But I feel like I’ve known you forever.”

“You’re right,” he murmurs. “That _does_ sound twee.”

“You fucker.”

Their laughter turns to smoke on the air. Drifts out over the river’s listless current. Carries with the snowflakes. Mixes with the stars. He turns a little. Finds she’s done the same. Faces bent toward each other; brows brushing softly. He whispers a fingertip the curve of her jaw, tips her chin up to meet his kiss.

“Mm, twee… but _true_.”

Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to. He feels her smile against his lips. Fingers in the curls at his nape, pulling him closer. Moonlit river. Starlight muted by the snowflakes. Ivory glow of her cheeks against the dark air. Warm kiss melting some of the ice of the night. Weird, weird world. But it’s _theirs_. This moment is, too — and he’ll make the most of it. Mm, yes. He will _treasure_ it. 

*

Snow stops soft as it began. Leaves the ground white, the sky clear. Clear as her head. No whirlwind. No blizzard. Nothing sharpened up by the cold clarity of the air. Thoughts. Memories. Painful things she tries so hard to keep buried. All as they were at 01:11am. _Gone_. Faded at the edges of her mind. Burnt away by the warmth in her heart. Half-healed by the heady swell settling deep between her ribs. Takes a deep, shuddering breath. Tightens her grip on his fingers.

Hand in hand at the riverside. His thumb rasping the side of her little finger. Eyes closed, she breathes it in. Salt and smoke of the river. Softer scent of him. Lets her mind think back. Days, weeks, _months_. Drinking. Smoking. Pupils blown-wide. _Pretending_. Living a lie; Arya was right. But this — here, _now_ — this feels like something different. Right, wrong, whatever this world of theirs may be; her and him — it feels like the _truth_. And that’s enough for her. That’s _more_ than enough for her.

Dawnlight limning the sky when he delivers her back to her door. Boundaries. Bit of distance. She insisted on it as much as him. Stands on the step as he shuffles his feet in the street. Hands in his pockets. Brows quirked up. His _eyes_. Round. Dark. Like staring straight into his soul. Lets her look — only fair since he’s staring straight into her own. Scatter of sunlight brushing his shoulders. She traces the dapples with her fingertips. Feathers them up to his neck. Presses her thumb to his lips. Smiles as he kisses it.

“What now?”

He gives a half-shrug, smiling against her thumbprint. “It’s our world. Our rules. We’ll make it up as we go along. Find out what works. What doesn’t — change things up, cut things out. Go with whatever we both decide.” Bird-tilt of his head. Broader smile. “Sound good?”

“Sounds good.”

Gaze at each other for a moment. Quite openly. Everything laid bare. City waking up all around them. Trucks rumbling. Garbagemen calling out. Street-sweeper whistling a happy little tune. Old drunk picking up a sea-shanty to sing along to it. Blare of a car-radio. But it’s like none of it exists. Just her. Him. The silent understanding pinning the look fixed in both their eyes. Nod at each other now, smiles shivering in the faint sunlight.

“We’re in agreement, then?”

She lifts her chin. “Yes. Oh, _yes_.”

“Excellent.” He steps back. Watches as her fingers fall away from his lips. Tilts his head to the side again. “Oh, and by the way…”

Mirrors him, quirk in her brow. “Yes?”

“I expect those essays to be marked and on my desk by Monday morning, Miss Stark.”

Shakes her head. Laughing now. “And if they’re not, Professor Snow?”

“Like I told you before.” Bites his lip and sweet _Jesus_ suddenly she’s aching all over again. “Bad TAs get demoted… but bad _girls_ get put across the knee.” Sees the fire in her eyes, takes another step back, smoky chuckle as he goes. “Sleep well, Miss Stark.”

Watches him practically dance down the street. Fire in her eyes flooding straight into her bloodstream. Valleys of her veins coursing hot every inch of her skin. _Sleep well_. Shakes her head, swears at him under her breath. Stupid smile on her face even as she curses. _Sleep well, Miss Stark_. Mm, she will. Might have to say a prayer or two first, though.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pancakes. Promises. Phone-calls. Pathway to a semi-sense of healing. Started off as a request for _extra credit_… and now here we are. Here. We. **Are**. 
> 
> God, the love I have for this particular piece of Jonsa has honestly taken me completely by surprise. I genuinely adore these two. The world we’ve built for them. Wrong, right, whatever it may be — I just bloody **love** it. 🥰 I’m so lucky to have found a group of brilliant, fantastic, insightful, _lovely_ readers who seem to adore it just as much as me. Your comments have made my day/evening/morning/whatever hour I read them — even if I’ve had a bad day or I’m stressed out. They are my little bit of sunshine in all the grey. ☀️ My silent readers, too, thank you **so** much for following along, leaving a kudos etc. you're amazing. 😍 Wanted this to be short and sweet. 10 chapters and some 26,000(**!**)words later, here we are… and I still **can’t stop**. _Sequel is coming_. Christmas. 1 year on. Family reunions. High drama. History. Hotness. Healing. **OMG**, I really, truly hope to see you there, my sweets. ❤️
> 
> **NB**: and _yes_, that little oath-swearing, promise-keeping scene was _definitely_ a nod to S7 Jon, yes indeed — good spot, honeys. 🍯✨


End file.
